


thrown down like a barricade

by orphan_account



Series: so far from being free [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Blend of book & show canon, Daenerys Targaryen Deserved Better, Don’t copy to another site, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, King Joffrey, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Pining, No White Walkers, POV Robb Stark, Political Alliances, Political Intrigue, Robb Lives, Slow Burn, Smut, War Table Sex, War of the Five Kings, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-27 22:23:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20053498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Rather than lay his crown at her feet, all he had to offer her was the mangled heart within his chest. He had little use for it when all it seemed to do was thrum for her, relentless in its devotion, heavy in his chest. Once the sun rose, they would again be resigned to their roles as a king and queen whose interests would never align.The War of the Five Kings rages on as Daenerys arrives at Westeros, deposing Stannis Baratheon and claiming Dragonstone for herself. With Joffrey still on the Iron Throne, the King in the North agrees to treat with the Dragon Queen and gets far more than an alliance.





	1. faith is a hard thing to hold on to

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be read as a standalone but I would really recommend reading so far from being free to get a sense for the setting/politics! This was beta'd by the amazing @fowlaaa who I love very dearly! 
> 
> The quick run-down is that there's a domino effect once Theon rescues Sansa from King's Landing instead of going to Pyke. Robb and Joffrey are still alive and the WotFK has been going down for five years. Daenerys has landed at Westeros and Robb goes to treat with her after the Boltons betray him and take Edmure prisoner.
> 
> I want to clarify that I do not endorse or condone infidelity in any way. The circumstances of Robb's marriage to Roslin are very specific to an arranged marriage and the duties he's been forced to take on as a king. This is just a story about love vs. duty rather than about pitting one woman against another, and I want to make that super clear! I love Roslin and I love Dany, and this is just how their story played out in this verse.

The dinghy hit the sandy shores of Dragonstone with a thump. Each soldier held their breath as they looked upon the decrepit castle, eyeing the skies warily in case a dragon -or three- decided to descend upon them without warning. Robb’s heart thrummed anxiously in his chest, but he maintained a cool disposition for the sake of his men. He couldn’t show weakness or doubt now, not when nearly every man in his service advised him against coming here.

With Joffrey cowering behind the walls of the Red Keep and his grandfather hidden away in the capital with the Tyrell forces, an alliance was the surest way to ensure the end of his rule.

As much as Robb would prefer to stay out of Southron politics and return home to let the lions and dragons have it out for the throne, he had to see this through for his father’s memory. Until his family had their justice in the form of Joffrey’s head on a spike, this war would never end.

Ser Donnel squared his jaw as he leapt over the side of the boat, tugging on the thick rope at its end so that they could settle on the beaches of the small island.

Now that Stannis Baratheon had been deposed of and a Targaryen had named herself the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it seemed that there was another dimension to this war now; what weight would the Baratheon name even carry now that the Mad King’s daughter was here with an army of over forty-thousand at her back? Some reports claimed that her army was even larger, the phrase ‘a hundred-thousand’ uttered at some point during his last war council on the matter.

A Dothraki horde of such a size riding into battle was the stuff of legends and fairy stories.

They would make as formidable an ally as they would be a dangerous enemy; all he could hope for was that he wouldn’t be on the opposing side of their wrath once it came to combat on an open field. With all the enemies he had already managed to accumulate, the last thing he needed was an army of horse lords raiding and roving their way through the North and the Riverlands.

The Tyrells were guarding the blond shit on the throne, the Lannisters were hiding away in the capital, and the Boltons were wreaking havoc in the west with his own uncle as a hostage.

It seemed that the tides of this war hadn’t turned in his favor.

“Ready?” Dacey asked from his side, her eyes hardened as if she expected to die as soon as their feet touched the shore. She remained unyielding as she stared at the castle, as loyal as she had always been. There wasn’t a single battle that she didn’t fight at his side, slaughtering their enemies with the strength of ten men.

“As I’ll ever be,” Robb murmured, the corners of his lips tilting upwards despite the churning in his gut. Would he meet the same end as the uncle and grandfather he had never met? There was nothing stopping the Dragon Queen from setting him aflame the moment he stepped foot in her halls. He wondered if she hoped to take the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood as Aegon the Conqueror had once done and dared to hope that he would leave this island with his life.

Sansa would never let him hear the end of it if he died here. She would likely dive into the seven hells herself and yank him out just to give him an earful about how he should have listened to her and not gone to treat with the woman whose family annihilated half a generation of Starks. Mayhaps he would prove her right and die here, if fortune didn’t fall as he hoped.

His legs wobbled a bit from disuse as he got used to the feeling of sand underneath his boots.

It was a strange sensation compared to the dewy marshes of the Riverlands, or the powdery snow of the North. This place was windier than he thought it would be, reminding him a tad of how Theon described the Iron Islands once when they were a great deal younger, when they were still summer children living in a pure world. He recalled a time when he was worlds younger and caught snowflakes on his tongue in hopes that it would somehow taste better than drinking water.

He could see his childhood as clear as day: Theon laughing boisterously as he encouraged Jon to hoist Arya off the ground just to drop her onto a pile of snow, Bran spluttering in horror when Sansa hurled a snowball right at his face, Rickon gurgling from where Mother was bouncing him on her lap, Father watching on with mild amusement from the battlements…

The dream vanished as soon as he let it worm itself in his mind.

Kings had little time to dream or wonder or hope for the future. It was just duty after duty at this point, though Robb had resigned himself to this fate the moment Joffrey put his father to the sword. He would be a creature of duty for as long as the North required it of him.

And this would be just another one of them.

He hoped to present Daenerys with the same agreement he once hoped to broker with Renly Baratheon; he would help her take the throne in return for his country’s independence. Hopefully she wouldn’t die as soon as she agreed to it as the first king he forged an alliance with had.

Robb looked around his surroundings to size up a small garrison of armored men with spears, none of them looking particularly like they planned on staging an assassination just yet. A small bearded man stood before them all. He looked worse for wear but was recognizable all the same.

“The Young Wolf,” Tyrion clapped his hands together, stepping forward as Robb’s companions eyed the Dragon Queen’s soldiers with ill ease. “It’s been far too long.”

_Not long enough_, Robb thought to himself but didn’t dare say it out loud. Insulting the man in his own home was one thing but doing it on foreign territory was another. If the man truly was the Targaryen Queen’s Hand, she wouldn’t take kindly to hostility so early into peace talks. Self-restraint would be his harshest challenge during negotiations, that much was evident already.

“Lord Tyrion,” he nodded curtly, hand unconsciously flying to the pommel of his sword as his men settled behind him, ready for an attack where Robb was at ease. He eyed the man’s facial injuries with just a hint of haughtiness. “Good to see you in one piece.”

“Clever. I see you haven’t lost your sparkling wit.” The man cracked a smile at the turn of phrase, a hand shooting up to trace along his own scar as if he had forgotten it was there. He eyed Robb with a curiosity that spoke more to his thoughts than any of his false words or sardonic compliments did. “I don’t suppose you’re still wondering if my father really does shit gold?”

This time it was Robb’s turn to suppress a smile.

It seemed like it was just yesterday that he was threatening Tywin Lannister to a quaking messenger, leading the man’s son to fall right into his trap at the Whispering Wood. The Kingslayer was still rotting in Riverrun’s dungeons, nearly five years later, and the war wasn’t even close to being won. He might have his sisters back but so long as that sniveling little shit, Joffrey, sat upon the Iron Throne, his campaign persisted.

He appraised the man in his scaled doublet and golden hand-shaped pin, a little put off by the sight of it. Tyrion Lannister was a turncloak no matter what excuses came pouring out of his twisted mouth; betraying an unworthy king after contributing so heavily to his rule seemed to contradict the very purpose of switching sides. Did he only choose Daenerys Targaryen because he wagered that she would be the winning side?

Robb could never respect such a man.

Whatever his motivations were, they wouldn’t be able to excuse abandoning his own family, not after all he had already done to protect them. It was as shameless as it was dishonorable.

Robb cleared his throat and glanced around him restlessly, hoping to just get this over and done with. “Why do you think I came here in the first place, Lord Tyrion?”

“Right to business then,” Tyrion chuckled mostly to himself. “I wouldn’t expect any less from the King in the North. Welcome to Dragonstone,” he gestured at the sandy wasteland around them as if he were making some grand jape that no one understood but himself, appearing to be slightly drunk in his actions. “If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons.”

He could practically hear the frown in Olyvar’s voice when he responded to the request in Robb’s stead, the disdain in his voice clear to anyone with ears. “Why should we? We’d rather keep our weapons. As long as _they’re_ armed, we’re not putting our swords down.”

The unmoving soldiers surrounding them didn’t waver. Robb watched them curiously, wondering what kind of sellswords they were that they behaved in such a way.

They didn’t look like a Dothraki khalasar, with their heavy armor and encasing helmets. The Unsullied then. She was said to have thousands of them at her command, if reports were to be believed.

“Aye,” Dacey voiced her agreement with the squire, sneering all the while. “We don’t know your queen. You’ll have better chances at pulling my teeth than you will taking my sword, my _lord_.”

“Rest assured,” Tyrion sounded affronted at the insinuation that the Dragon Queen would harm them without cause. Though Robb wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, she had no reputation for him to put his faith in. “-our queen does not make a habit of breaking guest right.”

“Where’s the bread and salt then?” Dacey piped up again, immune to his reassurances. “She hasn’t offered us her hospitality yet as far as I can tell. By all means, correct me if I’m wrong.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her and exchanged a glance with a soldier– one of high ranking, Robb assumed by their familiarity– before sighing, long and deep. He ignored Dacey in favor of addressing Robb directly, as if expecting him to yield instantly. “Your Grace, please.”

Robb locked eyes with him, knowing full well that refusing to disarm themselves now could set a dangerous tone for these negotiations. Could they truly trust that they wouldn’t be executed as soon as they laid their weapons to the side, though? He didn’t turn when he addressed his men, keeping his stare fixed on Tyrion. “Dacey, Patrek, with me. The rest of you will remain here until I command otherwise, keep watch of our weapons while we treat with their queen.”

He almost grinned at how Tyrion’s shoulders slumped the slightest bit, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if Robb were the greatest bane of his existence. He nodded begrudgingly, so Robb removed his sword from its scabbard first, handing it to Olyvar as gently as he could.

Two blades, a bow, a hatchet, and two longswords later, his group of three were unarmed and vulnerable as could be. If it was trust the Dragon Queen wanted, it was trust she would receive.

Owen gestured for the two remaining members of Robb’s battle guard to follow him back to the dinghy, stiff as he left his king’s side to the coast once more. _I hope you know what you’re doing_, his expression seemed to say though he would never undermine Robb out loud.

“The direwolf stays,” Tyrion’s voice was flat as he caught sight of Grey Wind padding beside Robb, loyal and obedient as no Lannister could hope to be to anyone but themselves and whatever passing fad aligned with their interests. Robb reached forward to scratch the back of his ear absentmindedly, disregarding the Hand of the Queen’s command as soon as it was dealt.

“He comes with me,” Robb snapped, “unless you propose to keep him out yourself.”

Tyrion raised a brow at him but faltered when Grey Wind bared his teeth at him and snarled, somehow suspecting that Robb wouldn’t stop his wolf if it reduced Tyrion into a light snack.

“Please, this way.” Tyrion gestured to the winding path to Dragonstone, the ruins of the castle grim as much as they were mystifying. Robb followed suit, glancing once at his companions to ensure that they were ready to go before he got on with it, unimpressed with their reception.

_Dragonlords of old built this place_, Robb recalled all the stories about the Targaryens that he pored over with Jon when they were younger, both of them lost in their daydreams about being great knights someday, _and they forged this castle, stone by stone, with the magic of Old Valyria_.

A screech sounded from the sky and Robb could only watch on as a yellow-winged dragon swooped through the air with a goat in its mouth, being chased by a green one as if they were dancing. The wind seemed to blow wherever the dragons willed it, a harsh gust of air nearly knocking the entire group of them to the ground while the creatures flew about in the air.

He could hardly believe his eyes, unable to fathom that he was awake and not lost in a fever dream of some sort; though the missive his sister showed him nearly two moons ago said that Daenerys Targaryen had dragons, it had never really sunk in until now.

Gods, they were gorgeous.

They were frightening and monstrous, just like how he imagined the dragons from storybooks, but they seemed to shine under the faint sunlight peeking through the storm clouds above them.

Robb’s jaw slackened as he stared up at the creatures, trying to memorize the smooth way they glided through the sky and the harsh beating of their wings.

Though Dacey flinched at the sight of them and Patrek stumbled backward with shock at the proximity that the lot of them had to the beasts, Robb stayed rooted in his spot. He would not show fear for the beasts, least of all with so many eyes on him.

So long as Grey Wind wasn’t threatened by the beasts, Robb knew he had nothing to fear.

The dragons seemed preoccupied as it was, fighting over an animal carcass without a care for crowns or titles or politics. If Robb could sprout wings and become a dragon himself, perhaps he would enjoy gallivanting and swooping around the sky, as well.

He would die happy if he could just return to Winterfell and solve minor squabbles between his vassals like his father had before the war had broken out.

For years he wondered why Lord Eddard never fostered him or Bran with a neighboring house or region, or why he put off betrothing his children for so long when most lords had them promised far earlier on in their lives, or why he hesitated to ever leave Winterfell even temporarily.

Now Robb understood. 

His wolf merely scampered ahead of them, tail swishing happily as if he hadn’t even noticed the pair of dragons above them. Robb followed ahead, ignoring all of Tyrion’s chatter about how pleased his queen was to hear from him until he got the hint to shut his mouth.

They might end the evening as allies, but Robb would be damned if this man ever became his friend. None of them knew the truth behind the assassin sent to kill Bran in his sleep but his mother had been convinced that it was this man’s doing. If that was the case…

The Lannisters wouldn’t be the only ones who paid their debts.

Soon enough, two heavy stone doors were wrenched open to reveal a gloomy, poorly lit hall lined with soldiers. He could practically smell the dust in the air, though a little effort had been made to restore the place to its former glory. Dragonstone had been long neglected, it seemed.

A silver-haired woman sat on a jagged throne atop a dais, staring down at him as if he were an insect that she meant to beat down and squash rather than a king come to offer her an alliance.

The light streaming in from behind Daenerys Targaryen caught in her bells woven into her braids, reflecting a kaleidoscope of color onto her throne room, beautiful despite the fact that she could easily order his death if she so willed it; the Essosi weren’t beholden to upholding guest right as the Westerosi were, no matter what empty promises Tyrion Lannister made, and the woman before him had spent little time in the land she hoped to conquer.

She could dispose of him now if she so wished it.

His lips parted at the look of her, marveling at her beauty as subtly as he could manage without openly gawking. She was every inch the warrior princess that Arya would fantasize that Queen Visenya was in the time of a hundred kingdoms and the murmured words of _Fire and Blood_. She had a look to her—the one that western sailors warned their crewmates about when recounting their tall tales about mermaids and sirens, luring men to their deaths.

Suddenly her abundance of inexplicable allies made sense; she looked to be the kind of woman who men would follow into battle without a second thought, even if it meant certain death.

Did the realm burn as harshly under Aegon’s dragonfire as Robb did now?

His legs felt heavier as he trudged forward.

The soft padding of Grey Wind’s feet on the stone ground was all he heard as the youngest of the Lannister family stopped directly beside the throne, standing as proudly as his siblings did. Even in chains, Jaime Lannister maintained an arrogance that could rival even the smuggest of men.

Gods, did Robb hate that family and their blasted dynasty of treachery and incest.

A faint ringing settled itself in his ears as soon as his eyes met the Dragon Queen’s, blue against violet, ice against fire. There was a masked rage in her gaze, something Robb could only ever recall seeing on the battlefield before this on men who hoped to end the war with a single swing of their sword. She hated him without so much as a word shared between them.

"You stand in the presence of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name,” A woman with curly dark hair announced crisply from the queen’s other side, drawing Robb out of his stupor in the process. The titles seemed to go on and on. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Queen of Meereen and the Bay of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons."

Robb’s eyes had shot up to the sky by the time it was done. The Dragon Queen’s plump lips were pulled into a smirk by the end of the introduction as if preening under the attention, probably fancying that she had managed to intimidate him without even speaking.

Did she think that much of herself that this was how she meant to receive the lords of Westeros?

His instant attraction to the woman was all but quelled now that she was looking at him with that thinly veiled resentment from earlier, proving to him that a pretty face didn’t make a woman beautiful, no matter how much she looked like a goddess plucked from the myths of old.

He couldn’t help but make a comparison between this queen and his Queen in the North, the woman he was meant to spend his life with but had known for scarce but a couple of moons.

Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes were cold where Roslin’s were warm, her smile sharp where Roslin’s were soft, her hair light where Roslin’s was dark. She was as terrifying as she was gorgeous, but she was a Targaryen, the _last_ Targaryen, and their reputation for volatility was not something that he planned on overlooking. He would not trade one mad tyrant for another.

He thought of his little wife hidden away in Winterfell, trying to remember what her voice sounded like to no avail. It was light and sweet, he recalled, though he couldn’t quite get the sound of it right. He imagined that it sounded the way honey would taste, as pretty as her smile.

Once more expectant eyes found him, he straightened under the pressure and steeled his gaze.

He didn’t need a servant to announce him to her.

“My name’s Robb Stark, Your Grace. I’m the King in the North and the Trident. With me are Dacey Mormont and Patrek Mallister, here to treat with you and welcome you to Westeros.”

A smile quirked at the woman’s lips as if she regarded him with little more esteem than a jester.

“The King in the North,” she repeated, her voice infuriatingly lovely even as she cut him down with naught but her words. Perhaps she had more in common with the lords and ladies of Joffrey’s court than he initially thought. “It seems to me that every man in Westeros has styled himself a king in some manner or another. How many is it now, Lord Tyrion? Five or six?”

Robb tried not to grind his teeth when Tyrion bit back a smile. “Six, Your Grace.”

“Six,” Daenerys confirmed a smidge too smug for Robb’s comfort. “And how many remain?”

“Three,” Tyrion answered immediately as if they had rehearsed this part of their conversation behind closed doors, seemingly a method to try to humiliate him into submission. “My nephew Joffrey and Theon Greyjoy still live, my queen. And of course, the King in the North.”

Robb bristled noticeably then, not wanting any of this woman’s wrath directed at his best mate.

Though the ironborn placed a crown upon his head, he had only gone to reclaim his family seat on Robb’s command, to solidify a long overdue union between their houses once and for all (and to make up for shagging his sister, but that was a matter of its own).

Would any of it be worth it in the end if they were burned alive before the year was up?

“I make no claims to the Iron Throne,” Robb spoke up, unwilling to let his intentions be skewed before he had a chance to defend himself. “Theon doesn’t either. Neither of us named ourselves kings like the others did—we were chosen to rule by our own people.” The Dragon Queen’s interest was piqued as she straightened in her seat, surprised that he was being so forthright with her. “All I want is Joffrey’s head, and to return to a free and independent North, Your _Grace_.”

“The King in the North,” Dacey murmured from his side, nodding in time with his words as Grey Wind settled at Robb’s feet protectively, tail whipping back and forth as he stared up at the queen who seemed to be more mildly fascinated by the direwolf than frightened, though he supposed someone who rode dragons wouldn’t be that fazed by a giant dog.

“The King in the North,” Patrek echoed her as loyally as he always did.

“And who would you see on the Iron Throne?” Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him, as if expecting him to name the little girl she had deposited in her dungeons when she took the island.

The only reason he had even agreed to come here was that he had been assured that this queen had merely taken Shireen Baratheon prisoner over putting her to the sword like any of the other kings Westeros had would have. Robert Baratheon would have seen Daenerys herself dead and yet, she spared his niece a terrible death that Joffrey would have relished in.

Perhaps she wasn’t like the rest of them after all.

Robb didn’t hesitate for a moment, already having prepared this response. “Someone worthy.”

As if understanding his meaning, Daenerys leaned back in her seat contemplatively, exchanging an unreadable glance with Tyrion. “Then I assume you’re not here to bend the knee.”

“No, Your Grace,” Robb responded, trying to gauge the temperament of this woman for himself. It would do no good if he threw his support behind someone who would abuse the very same power that had driven so many kings mad, especially if madness already ran through her veins, just waiting to be set off as it had been for so many Targaryens before her. “I’m not.”

“What a shame,” Daenerys sighed though she didn’t seem to expect him to yield to her so easily. Perhaps Tyrion gave her forewarning that Northmen were unbelievably stubborn, or she simply assumed the worst from the moment she received his missive. “The Seven Kingdoms are my birthright, Robb Stark. _All_ seven kingdoms. That includes the North and the Iron Islands. I cannot abide by a division of these kingdoms, especially without some assurance that you won’t challenge my claim the moment I take the throne for myself.”

“On my honor as a Stark, I can guarantee that the Iron Throne does not interest me.” Robb furrowed his brows, wondering what she could possibly expect of him other than a pledge of fealty. Perhaps that was just it; she wanted him to bend the knee for her in lieu of an alliance.

Would she threaten him with her dragons if he refused any further?

Though he understood why the kings of old had knelt for the Targaryens, he couldn’t reconcile the thought of kneeling for a leader who would rather see the world burn than live by their own rule. What kind of ruler would choose to sit upon a throne of ash and bone if there was another alternative? Would he truly be saving the North by kneeling if she had such a bloodlust in her?

“Forgive me for saying so, but a Stark’s honor means little to me,” Daenerys retorted, her hands clasped together on her lap, something ferocious building in her eyes. “The Starks usurped my family from our rightful seat and drove me from this country when I was still in my mother’s womb. My late brother raised me on the streets of Essos, where assassins and rapers tried every day to see my family meet its end. We spent years fleeing from city to city, without a home, without a family, without anything in the world but the hope that we may someday return to Westeros and restore our house to what it once was.”

She rose from her seat, intimidating beyond her years. “Forgive me if I do not put my faith in your family’s honor, but you are but a stranger to me no matter what I’ve heard about a Stark’s honor. After all, a queen who trusts blindly is as foolish as a queen who trusts no one.”

Robb wet his lips as they stared at each other on uneven planes, fury crackling between them at the unspoken - or had it been spoken now? - challenge. “With all due respect, your father was overthrown because he burned my grandfather and uncle for sport. Your brother abducted, raped, and murdered my aunt Lyanna, a girl of _fifteen_,” he stepped forward, impassioned by the thought of the relatives that he had never known. How could she question the deposition of her family from the country after what they had done here? “Your family killed half a generation of Starks, so you’ll have to excuse me for not being overeager to hand our country into your hands. As you said yourself, you are a stranger to me. And your family’s reputation precedes you. I defied all of my counselors in even considering to treat with the Mad King’s daughter.”

Silence consumed the room for an unbearable moment.

Daenerys stepped down from her dais carefully, each movement as graceful and controlled as if she herself was a dragon coming to devour him. Every step prompted a raucous pounding of drums in his head, and he found it quite difficult to breathe under the intensity of her gaze.

He remained fixed in place, unwilling to yield to this woman if she meant to intimidate him.

She stopped directly before Robb, surprisingly short as she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. Grey Wind stirred, cocking his head with curiosity at her rather than growling like he typically did with enemies. If the direwolf didn’t hate her, perhaps he had some hope for an alliance yet; he had chewed the Greatjon’s finger of at the mere threat of an attack and so, Robb trusted his direwolf’s judgment more than he did with most men.

“My father was an evil man,” Daenerys spoke, her words firm yet soft. Robb felt his resolve crumbling as she anchored him to reality with her eyes, an odd blend of blues and purples swirling as if to beckon him forward. “I don’t intend to rule as he did. I have come here to rid Westeros of its tyrants, not become one of them. I suspect you want the same thing, my lord.”

“I do,” he confirmed, unable to look away from her now. If she deemed to call him by the wrong title, that was her prerogative. Could she be trusted or was she just another snake in the grass, saying all the right things in hopes of pulling one over on him? He thought of Sansa as the woman appraised him, trying to think on the stories she told him about Southron court. _They’re all liars, Robb_, he could hear her voice as clear as day, grounding him to reality.

“Then perhaps we should extend negotiations past today,” Daenerys held a hand out to him, not as a promise but as an offering. “I recognize that you are fighting a war, Robb Stark, but if you hope to broker an alliance between our forces, I would have you stay a little longer.”

“How much longer are you suggesting, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked from far behind her, a little peeved to have been all forgotten in the conversation. Or was it that she hadn’t consulted him before making the proposal for herself? “Time is of the essence with Joffrey still on the throne. He’s been made aware of our presence by now. We can’t let this get away from us, my queen.”

“A few weeks at the most.” Daenerys spoke with conviction, “it seems that it would benefit us both to get to know one another before we discuss fealty any further, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A reasonable assessment,” Tyrion chimed in though it seemed his breath was wasted on throwing his opinion into the mix. Neither Daenerys nor Robb were paying him much mind, instead sizing each other up as if they were sparring in a training yard rather than discussing the groundwork for an alliance. Agreeing seemed like an obvious enough choice with the war in mind, but the notion of treading carelessly and falling into a trap plagued his mind.

Could he trust her not to waste his time and leave his armies vulnerable for an attack?

If spending a little longer here was what it took to keep the North from going up in flames, he would take it, no matter the risks it came at. Robb reached over to grasp her arm with his in the old way, a shiver running along his skin as soon as she squeezed it in return.

He swallowed heavily as Daenerys offered him her first true smile of the meeting, a sight too bright to look away from, too blinding, too beautiful. It was a wonder his legs didn’t give out from underneath him when she looked up at him as if she knew his every thought, his every weakness. What had come over him that he was melting under her gaze like a green boy who had just had his first kiss? He was a king, not a child frothing at the mouth after the girl he fancied.

“Then it’s settled,” he heard himself saying, voice a little huskier than usual. If Dacey Mormont threw him a strange look at the way he said it, he pretended not to notice. “My men will need to be accommodated while we’re here. There are only seven of us.”

When she released him, Robb felt himself release a breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

“Of course,” Daenerys swiveled on her feet, her vibrant red cape swishing behind her before she addressed Robb once more, as if speaking an afterthought. “I hope that our houses may come to an accord in the negotiations to come. Together, we would be quite difficult to defeat.”

Robb could only nod at her when she nodded once in dismissal and returned to Tyrion’s side, whispering something to him that he couldn’t make out. The other man didn’t look angry, per say, but had a look of uncertainty on his face as his eyes flicked back to Robb every few seconds.

He felt a hand clap at his shoulder and turned to Patrek, who was smiling at him supportively, seeming entirely oblivious to Dacey’s disapproval. “You did well, Robb.”

“Probably would’ve done better if you weren’t gawking at her like a blushing maid,” Dacey hissed, decidedly unimpressed now that Daenerys was well out of hearing distance. He glanced back at the silver queen, watching on with curiosity as a well-adorned member of her guard communicated something to her and her Hand of the Queen. “The fuck happened back there?”

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Mormont,” Robb defended himself. The queen was attractive, it was true. He’d have to be blind not to notice _that_, but he wasn’t so weak-willed that he would fall to his knees before the first beautiful woman he saw. He was here out of the duty he bore for the North, for his wife, for his family, “I’m not sure what to make of her, that’s all.”

“If you say so,” Dacey rolled her eyes as they made to leave the hall and retrieve their weapons.

* * *

Olyvar tapped his foot against the leg of the table nervously as he picked at the meat on his plate, the sound of his fork scraping against the table driving Robb up the wall. He meant no harm but the tension in his actions set an uncomfortable tone for the first meal that they had in this castle.

It wasn’t the most appetizing meal they had ever eaten, but it was better than the turnip stew or potato broth that his war camps typically had to offer. Roasted seagull was better than nothing.

Robb shoveled the blackened meat into his mouth and washed it down heartily with some of the ale that the queen’s servants had to offer. It wasn’t so bad now that he was getting used to it.

“Eat up, little lad,” Owen Norrey grinned, a bit of lettuce sticking out of his teeth like a clover on an ashen field. “S’not so bad if you give it a chance. You’ve had worse at the Twins, I reckon.”

The squire flushed, chuckling under his breath. “Aye, I have.”

“What’s the worst you ever had?” Donnel prodded, keeping the air around them light despite the circumstances. None of them expected to be here for longer than a day, all anticipating a quick rejection so they could be on their way, but they found themselves here nonetheless.

“Once, Father served us fish brains on rye,” Olyvar scrunched his nose up. “The smell of it’s something I’ll never forget. Some bloke from the Summer Isles told him it was a delicacy and the old fool believed it, fed it to us all before he took a gander at it himself. I vomited it all out before twenty minutes were up. I’ll never forget the way it squished when I bit into it.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Owen cut in, “but your father’s a bit of a cunt, mate.”

Dacey burst out laughing, raising her tankard in agreement. “I’ll toast to that.”

Rodrik Forrester snickered as their cups clanked together, loose droplets of ale dripping onto the table. “To Walder fookin’ Frey and his band of shithead sons! You’re the best of ‘em, Oly.”

Olyvar was about to respond when a woman flounced into the room urgently, the door practically swinging open with her entrance. Her lips were curved up into a pleasant smile as soon as they turned to look at her, not seeming half as rushed as her arrival made her seem.

This was one of the queen’s handmaidens- it was simple enough to guess after one look at the black-and-red garb she was wearing. He could have sworn that he saw her in the hall earlier, one of the only non-warrior companions that the Dragon Queen seemed to keep by her side.

After only having spent a few hours at Dragonstone, it was a wonder that he even knew how to navigate the Northerner’s section of the castle, let alone began learning everyone’s names. As a king, it had always been important to him to get to know the lowest as well as the highest, and so he was resolved to make an effort for anyone who tended to them or prepared them meals.

So far, he had identified Missandei and Strong Belwas among the queen’s entourage but otherwise had not been formally introduced to any of her band of advisors and protectors. This girl had a sweet look to her face, her long black hair shimmering under the light.

Gods, he swore he heard one of the guards refer to her by name at least once. Jasmin? No, that wasn’t it. Jeyne was too Westerosi-sounding for this girl, likely brought along with the khalasar or freed from one of the cities of Slaver’s Bay as the queen’s right-hand woman had been.

“King Stark?” She tested the words out, beaming when everyone turned their heads towards Robb as he was halfway through chewing his last bite of seagull, dread curling inside of him at the thought of having to think on his feet again. “Our queen would like to speak with you.”

He sighed resignedly and stood, wondering if he would ever get to live a quiet life away from politics and the mummery that came with it. Probably not. “Of course.”

Grey Wind remained with his men, goaded into staying by the burnt gull wing that Dacey slipped to him under the table. Robb followed the girl out of the castle, climbing up the stairs of the stony holdfast as they wandered about. He sincerely hoped that she knew where she was going, as all of the castle and its towers looked much the same to him at this point.

They didn’t waste any time with the mindless prattle he had to entertain from time to time, instead shuffling forward in awkward silence. She understood bits and pieces of the Common Tongue, he was sure, but she made no attempt to speak with him beyond commenting on how chilly it had gotten. For anyone in Essos, Dragonstone was likely the coldest place they had ever seen; he couldn’t imagine how they would fare in the cold of the North.

If only he had sent one of the Dothraki warriors to fetch him rather than a handmaiden, mayhaps they would have actually had something to speak about.

Since his childhood, he had long wondered how the great khals across the sea carried themselves and if they truly did fight with the arakhs that the history books described; all he had seen of them was a shoddily-drawn crescent-shaped blade in the corner of one of the books his grandfather had purchased for his uncle Brandon nearly three decades ago.

He wanted to know what made the Dothraki tick, how they trained, and most of all, why they had risked everything to travel across the Narrow Sea for Daenerys Targaryen when they had never followed a woman before in their history. What made her so special that they abandoned everything they knew for her, including their very livelihood and land, and overlooked the prejudices against women that had long been ingrained in their culture?

Even Westeros had yet to fully embrace a woman as anything but the king’s most prized possession. Women were as capable as men, if not more so, as Mother and Sansa had proved to him time and time again; not everyone had a mind that women were fit to rule though, so he had to wonder what it was about this queen that inspired so many people to fight for her.

When they found their way to the battlements overlooking the sea, Daenerys Targaryen’s back was facing them, staring at the sea as if she longed to jump in and swim about like a fish would.

A storm was brewing, clear by the dashes of green and grey in the sky.

It would rain before long, but it didn’t seem to worry her in the slightest. What was a little rain to a woman who could supposedly emerge through fire unscathed? If even half the stories about her were true, she had nothing to fear from the likes of lions or roses or wolves or stags.

“The Northern King, Khaleesi,” the Essosi girl announced, smiling brightly as the woman who summoned him turned around, hair whipping in front of her as the winds picked up. She no longer wore the bells in her hair from earlier, though her braids were wrapped and threaded through each other even more elaborately than before. He knew from his lessons as a child that the Dothraki wore bells in their hair as a demonstration of strength, and that they never cut their hair unless defeated in battle. Perhaps she wore them only in diplomatic situations.

Daenerys responded in a foreign tongue, her voice warming as if she truly loved the girl. The black-haired servant murmured something in the same language before leaving, head held high and a spring to her step. Her eyes caught on Robb next and she gestured for him to join her.

He stepped forward hesitantly, uncertain as to what she could want from him.

“Your Grace,” he rested his elbows on the cool stone and opted to stare at the view ahead of them. “What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

Daenerys glanced at him before following suit, returning to her spot several feet away from him with a heaving sigh. Her dragons were circling over the castle, all three of them seeming to get some sort of stimulus from spreading their wings and chasing one another about. She watched them like his mother would watch Bran and Arya horse around in the mud outside, back before Robert Baratheon had come to Winterfell to tear his family apart.

“Tyrion thinks that negotiating with you is pointless,” Daenerys spoke evenly, calm despite the stiffness she carried herself with. It was if every word was a performance for his benefit, a pretense that Robb was well acquainted with. She smiled though her eyes did not. “That you have no intention of ceding the North to me no matter what I might do or say.”

“I don’t,” Robb cracked a smile of his own, not bothering to lie to her when he had made his intentions clear from the first. “I was hoping you’d change your mind, if I’m being honest. I don’t want to be your enemy in the wars to come. It’s why I came here at all.”

“It seems that we’re at an impasse,” Daenerys murmured, her tone light in spite of the subject-matter. At that, Robb turned slightly to get a look at her. Her lips were upturned, her brow lifted upward as if she found the situation rather amusing. “Neither of us are willing to yield to the other and yet, we both insist on keeping up the façade of negotiating an alliance.”

“Aye,” he grinned, unable to help but find humor in the situation now. “That sounds about right.”

Daenerys tilted her gaze to meet his and suddenly, Robb felt as though every move he made was being scrutinized. “And what do you suggest we do about it?”

He huffed another laugh, more nervous this time now that she was watching him as carefully as a hawk would with its prey. “Try to talk each other out of it, I reckon.”

In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do. Could he abandon this pursuit now and risk letting the North get razed to the ground? Even in the stories he had been told as a child, her ancestors had been hailed for forcing Westeros to kneel with dragons at their back; the Targaryen conquerors of old were still heroes no matter how many houses burned in their wake. What was the line between greatness and evil when the historians seemed to decide the distinction amongst themselves?

There was nothing keeping her from burning them all or at the very least, making an example of someone to force the others to bend and yet, she made no attempt to even take the capital with force. He had no doubt in his mind that Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t have hesitated to use dragons to take the city if they were at his disposal, given the whispers of how he dabbled in the dark arts and blood magic with the foreign priestess he kept by his side.

What had even become of the woman now that her liege lord was dead? Mayhaps she had fled before the battle, or chose to die with the king that she proclaimed to be the realm’s savior.

“I suppose we have ample time for it,” she mused, looking back at her dragons above them as if in a world of her own. “You’ve been at war for nearly five years. You must wish it was over.”

“Every day,” Robb admitted, seeing no bright side to continuing with his battles and strategies. Some men lusted for war but Robb cared not for the barbarity of it; every day he fought on the battlefield was another day that he risked leaving his family vulnerable to attack. He had to keep fighting for them if not for anyone else. “What I want doesn’t matter much, though, does it?”

“Such is the life of a leader,” she murmured her agreement and he felt an odd kinship between them. A mutual understanding despite their differences. “Our lives will never truly belong to us.”

Robb glanced back at her, not quite comprehending the troubled look on her face. What did she know of loss and war? The woman was a mystery to him, an enigma to Westerosi politics for nearly her entire life, and now she was here with every chance at ousting the current king.

Neither of them spoke. The only sound he could make out was the gentle waves crashing against the rocks and sand below them, a cool breeze washing over them as they stood upon the wall, two young rulers with the world at their fingertips. She would either be his greatest ally, he knew, or she could be the very storm that returned his country to the dirt.

In a matter of days, he would know which she would prove to become.

“It’s time that I retire for the night, I’m afraid.” Daenerys spared one last look at her pets before withdrawing from her spot on the edge of the battlements, making to leave as two of her dragons tussled with one another in the sky. “I appreciate your candor, my lord, truly I do.”

She turned but not before he called out to her, as confused as he was relieved. “Tomorrow then?”

Daenerys tilted her head to the side, her lips quirked upward as she nodded affirmatively. “Tomorrow. I advise that you get your rest while you can. We have much to discuss.”

He watched her leave, his heart hammering frantically in his chest as the black dragon swooped over the battlements with a high-pitched screech.

* * *

Almost everything in his quarters were caked with dust. Even the candles were grimy with disuse, seeming to have been abandoned for years on end before he had occupied it.

Robb had to wonder who was housed here before him; it was larger than the lodgings of a minor noble for certain, though its state led him to believe Stannis hadn’t done so much as touched it when this castle was his. There were only a few reasons that he could think such once-luxurious chambers would be neglected, and most of them were rooted in ghost stories and superstitions.

Perhaps it belonged to Princess Elia or her daughter before the horrors that befell their family. The Lannisters had slaughtered them as well as the young prince as savagely as they would with livestock. How many lives and houses would their family trample over before they were finally brought to justice? Even he had turned positively green when Old Nan told him, Jon, and Theon the tale of Gregor Clegane and what he had done to the princess’ family, all for the Lannisters.

But Tywin Lannister had only done it for Robert Baratheon, hadn’t he? It was no wonder that Stannis Baratheon couldn’t bear to look at the chambers considering the role his family had taken in the deaths of the infants. It was probably a nightmare come to life for him when the very woman whose mother and brother he failed to capture came back to kill him herself.

The thought made Robb’s insides turn and so he tried to chase it from his head.

The room wasn’t much, but it was considerably more comfortable than huddling under some furs in a tent. He hadn’t had a bed of his own since he and Roslin first wed, nearly… gods, was it nearing eight moons already? Had it truly been so long since his oath to Walder Frey was fulfilled? That meant it had been four moons since he had touched her, kissed her, _felt_ her.

He missed a woman’s touch and the sound of laughter, though it was proving difficult to recall the exact sound of Roslin’s with the wind rustling against his closed windows. She was his wife in the eyes of the gods, and so he tried to think of her as often as he could. It didn’t help that he barely knew a thing about her save that she favored the colors green and yellow.

Robb closed his eyes, recalling her face as well as he could. He started with her wide brown doe eyes and continued to her bow-shaped lips. He could begin to picture it now- the angular slopes of her face, her loose chestnut hair splayed out over the pillows, her blinding smile when he nipped at her neck just right, her long legs hitched over his waist, the bouncing of her pert breasts when she would finally let her sense of propriety go and allow herself to enjoy his touch…

He took himself in his hand as he thought of his little wife – the wife who carried his son or daughter inside of her, the wife he tried tirelessly to love as she deserved, the wife he barely knew – and jerked his cock to thoughts of her face, and her body, and her smile, and breasts.

It was out of determination to be a loyal husband that he rid other thoughts of women from his mind. He had… struggled with Talisa, it was true, but everyone assured him that love came easily once given a chance. What was passion compared to stability?

Roslin was pretty, she was lovely, she was kind, she was perfect. He had no reason not to worship the ground she stood on. And yet…

_No_, Robb pressed on, willing himself to conjure a clearer image of the woman in his head as he kept at it, speeding his movements up so as to up the ante. _Think of her lips, her eyes, her smile_.

He groaned to himself, twisting his hand back and forth as his ministrations grew more frantic, more desperate, more needy. He needed _something_ that he couldn’t quite get and yet, the thought of needing anything else made him feel like he was the worst of men. She should have been enough for him. Why wasn’t any of it enough for him?

When he spilled his seed, he caught sight of a flash of violet where it should have been brown.

He felt a lump lodge itself into his throat when he found his release, his mind taking him in a treacherous direction when he found that he could no longer temper it.

The guilt he had been harboring for moons on end ran hotter than ever before, scalding his heart in the process of coursing through his body. Moments passed as he settled against the feather pillow, staring up at the ceiling above him and trying to convince himself that he had not just gotten off to the thought of a woman as different from his wife as the moon was from the sun.

_Stone by stone_, he reminded himself of his mother’s words as he always tried to do on nights like these, when he couldn’t picture a life at home with the stranger he had traded his life to in exchange for a bridge. _Love didn’t just happen to us, Robb. Time is all you need to love her_.

What would his father think of him if he could see him now, lusting after a woman he had just met when he should have been thinking of the girl he pledged his heart and life to? He had attempted to fulfil his responsibilities as best as he could in other regards but hadn’t focused nearly enough on the marriage he was whisked into with naught but a moon’s notice.

Walder Frey had been happy enough with the rushed nuptials, but Robb wished he had been given a little more time with Roslin before he swore his life to her before a Septon.

He wanted more than anything to love her in the way he had seen Father love Mother, the way he witnessed Theon love Sansa no matter how bizarre the notion of _Theon_ and _Sansa_ was.

The tender way that Theon peppered her face with kisses as they danced at the wedding was enough to send Robb deep into his cups for the night, yearning for even a fraction of the love and devotion that they shared with one another. From the time that he was a boy, all he had wanted from a marriage was to love and be loved in return; though Roslin tried to love him as he tried with her, he suspected that what they had would never quite break a surface-level fondness.

It made him uncomfortable on principle to live with the knowledge that his best mate was bedding his little sister, but he couldn’t help the envy that simmered underneath his skin when they acted so enamored with each other that the rest of the world seemed to trickle away.

Even on the battlefield with a crazed fire in his eyes, Theon fought like a man possessed, jewelry spilling out of his pockets as if he had come to fight a war simply to claim some spoils for Sansa. It was odd to see Theon, who had always unquestionably been _his_ friend, so devoted to a girl he had japed at the expense of regularly when they were children. He was happy for them but…

Was it so wrong that he wanted a love like that for himself?

He had gone to his mother once, well on his way to being properly drunk, blubbering about true love and duty and babes until she shut him up and sent him to bed. They hadn’t spoken about the matter again save for Mother lecturing him about how love didn’t come at once, as if she trusted that his heart would be able to steer him in the right direction no matter what it craved.

How much longer would it take for him to fall madly in love with his wife? To think about her when he closed his eyes, to love her as she deserved to be loved, to yearn for her touch rather than dread the thought of bedding her while she laid there in quiet submission, unable to tell whether she liked what he was doing or not…

He wanted a partner in life and love, and above all else, he wanted a wife, not a servant.

She had shared so much with him- her smiles, her bed, her _life_, but she never once divulged her real feelings on anything to him. He couldn’t tell what lurked behind her eyes, whether it was loathing, love, or indifference, and he doubted she would ever open her heart enough to tell him.

Seven hells, they barely had anything in common as it was. How were they supposed to make a home together with a child and a true family like his parents had done when he could barely look at her without wondering if she even _liked_ him, let alone truly wanted him as her husband?

_Stone by stone_, his mother had said. All he needed was some more time.

* * *

The food tasted no better in the morning than it did the night before. Robb tore into the tough strips of meat on his plate, betting that it had been sitting in their stores for weeks before it was served. It wasn’t spoiled, so he supposed that was all he could ask for. The eggs weren’t half bad so he shoveled as much of it as he could manage into his mouth and washed it down with water.

His men broke their fast with him, all as tense as they were exhausted. Judging by the circles under Owen’s eyes, he hadn’t gotten a nick of sleep the night before either.

The Dragon Queen wouldn’t have assassins murder them in their beds, he was certain of it.

Her position was precarious enough here that she couldn’t afford it; she would sooner try to persuade them to bend the knee than have them executed for it. If Robb died, he had two brothers to take the mantle up for him, not to mention another kingdom that would go to war on his behalf through his sister. If she cut the head off of one beast, two more would sprout in its place.

Robb had nothing to fear from this place, at least not for the time being.

“I’d give my left arm for some jam on toast about now,” Rodrik grumbled, not bothering to close his mouth as he chewed. “Gods be good, it’s been years since I’ve had a decent meal.”

“Quit your whining,” Donnel griped as he stirred his oats around in his bowl. “Least they’re giving us food to eat instead of letting us fend for ourselves. It’s better than nothing.” 

“Shut your hole,” Rodrik shot back though there was no malice in his tone. “S’not like you’d know a decent meal if it hit you in the face. You Lockes eat about as well as pigs.”

“I’ll make bacon out of you yet, boy-”

“Can’t a man just enjoy one meal without your bickering?” Robb cut in, water dribbling down his beard as he took another swig of his drink. “Gods, you’re worse than my sisters.”


	2. there's nothing left to say

Robb had never felt so unwelcome somewhere in his life as when he attended his first war council with the Dragon Queen and her advisors. Garbed in his furs with his companions by his side, Robb settled at the far corner of the war table. The painted board was more extravagant than anything he had at his disposal, considering that he usually just took to spreading a paper map across a table to do his planning with. Some Targaryen or another probably made this one.

Dacey bristled beside him when she caught sight of a balding man with a bear sigil sewn into his tunic, gnashing her teeth as if she meant to hurtle across the room and strike him dead. 

That must have been the slaver, the coward his father would have killed if he hadn’t fled the country to escape Northern justice. Here he stood, proud to guard a queen whose father he had helped to depose, whose brother he fought tirelessly for the chance to slaughter on the battlefield during Robert's Rebellion.

Did his queen even know the extent of his crimes?

The man didn’t look like much with his sad eyes and grim demeanor but stared at his cousin as if he had long awaited their reunion.

“Cousin,” he murmured, so low that Robb had to strain to hear him, though all of the Northmen remained stubbornly rooted in place. “You’ve grown.”

“Jorah,” Dacey spat at him loathingly, not holding back as she tore him a new one, each word laced with more venom than the last. “As shameless as ever, I see, and already hiding behind your new queen’s skirts like the craven you've always been. Your father would be ashamed if he could see you now.”

“Dacey,” Robb hissed, not wanting to risk souring these negotiations so soon. He reviled Jorah Mormont as much as any Northerner would, but this justice wasn’t theirs to mete out just yet. Eventually, though… no matter the theoretical protections that King Robert’s pardon granted him, the North wasn’t beholden to a Southron king’s doctrine. “The North remembers, Dacey.”

Her anger was abated slightly but she still crossed her arms over her chest, staring daggers at the disgraced Lord Mormont.

“Aye,” she mumbled back grudgingly, “it does.”

A flutter of movement on the far side of the room caught his attention. Tyrion Lannister was moving to cover the battle plans with a cloth, as if Robb was an intruder here and not a guest, to which Daenerys stopped him with a hand in the air, every movement she made seeming calculated albeit slightly uncomfortable.

“The King in the North is here on my invitation.” She informed him crisply. Tyrion immediately began protesting but his words were quickly swallowed up by his queen’s, confident in her rebuttal. “I appreciate your counsel, my lord, but I mean to forge a relationship of trust with our Northern allies. I would not have them presume that we were keeping things from them.”

“Your Grace, if this alliance does not come to fruition-” Tyrion started, his voice strained as if he wished to shove all of the Northmen out of the room and talk to Daenerys privately. Gods, if looks could kill, Tyrion would be dead thrice over.

Robb shifted on his feet, enjoying the show that they were providing them with, despite being the subject of the argument. It wasn’t Tyrion Lannister’s place to talk back to her like he was doing, least of all not in public, though he had to wonder why Daenerys had neglected to inform him of her invitation to the Northerners.

“I truly doubt that Robb Stark would divulge our secrets to the pretender,” she countered, the tension between them so thick that it caused her other counselors to twiddle their thumbs with discomfort. It didn't seem to be the first time that they had butted heads, by the looks of it.

He couldn’t decide whether the exchange impressed or disappointed him; she clearly wasn’t a tyrant, else she would have had Tyrion’s tongue cut out like Joffrey or Queen Cersei might have done, but their line of communication seemed sorely lacking for a queen and her closest advisor.

It wasn't very reassuring.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion’s voice was defeated as if he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“Perhaps we should ask him ourselves,” she turned her cutting stare to Robb, though her eyes danced with a blend of amusement and vehemence. “In the event that negotiations between us fail, will you betray our strategies to the man who executed your father and slaughtered thousands of your men, who you’ve been attempting to depose for the past five years?”

He couldn’t fight the smile growing at his lips at the look on Tyrion’s face, lowering his chin in an attempt not to grin openly at the Hand of the Queen’s misfortune. “I don’t plan on it, no.”

“That’s settled then,” Daenerys proclaimed as Tyrion’s shoulders slumped just a bit. “Let’s not waste any more time than we already have. Lord Varys, has there been any news from the west?”

The bald man adjacent to the table stepped forward as if a mummer come to give them a show.

Robb wracked his brain to remember if Sansa had mentioned anything about the man after her return from King’s Landing; she had briefed him on Littlefinger the schemer, Tyrion the lush, the insufferable and perverse grandmaester Pycelle… he recalled her mentioning Lord Varys by name but couldn’t for the life of him remember whether she thought him a friend or a foe.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Varys gestured to Tyrion who leaned over the table to place a lion-shaped map marker over top of Lannisport, knocking the trout and wolf off in the process.

Robb fought not to grit his teeth at the reminder of Roose Bolton’s duplicity. How could he have known that the Boltons would turn their backs on him at the first chance they got after years of loyally serving the North?

Robb thought of the box -that damned box- with the Tully sigil engraved into it, Edmure’s mangled hand glaring up at him as if to say _you did this_.

He should have just left the city in the Blackfish’s care rather than get cocky about it, especially after wasting such time there with little to show for it but making a dent in Tywin Lannister's pride. Lannisport was all but annihilated but true to its word, Casterly Rock had not fallen.

“With the Northern forces effectively vanquished from the Westerlands, our primary concern is the River Road,” the robed man continued with a flourish. “It’s held by the Starks for now but an attack from the west could overwhelm their defenses with ease.”

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully, her eyes trailed on the lion carving as if it would jump out at her without warning. “What are the chances that the Lannisters would even try?”

“Unclear, Your Grace,” Varys responded easily. “I suspect that the Tyrell armies are guarding the city. The Lannister armies were greatly diminished during the siege of Lannisport, so I expect that they may be licking their wounds for the time being.”

“How many are left?” Ser Barristan Selmy piped up, the one member of the Dragon Queen’s council that Robb couldn’t quite put a finger on. He had been raised on tales of this man’s valor and bravery, and had to wonder what the Dragon Queen had done to earn his loyalty.

“Twenty-thousand strong, at the very least.” Varys sing-songed softly, an Unsullied man with hair buzzed to his scalp leaning over the table to view the schematics for himself. He had seen this soldier with Tyrion from time to time. “The good news is that the Lannister armies can’t be far from the Crownlands. If Tywin Lannister plans to march on the Riverlands, we would have weeks to prepare for such an attack.”

When Robb saw Olyvar turn to look at him worriedly from his peripheral vision, he wondered if he had truly damned them all by coming here.

* * *

The seas were violent today, waves crashing against one another like they were at war. Grey Wind padded through the sand next to him, whining and yowling every once in a while in an attempt to get Robb’s attention. He couldn’t even find peace in his solitude, it seemed.

_He misses the snow_, Robb lamented, longing for home just as his wolf did, _he misses the North_.

He patted Grey Wind’s neck absentmindedly before the direwolf bound forward, his paws traipsing through the low tides of the water excitedly. Robb sighed, wishing that there were pebbles nearby so that he could at least entertain himself by skipping stones. Brooding had never suited him.

He had half a mind to try his hand at exploring the caverns to the side of the castles to look for a rock to throw but abandoned the idea quickly. His spot on the sandy ground, however boring it may be, would surely be more comfortable than wading through a spider-infested cave.

Robb’s men hadn’t taken to the island any more than they had the first day, the lot of them sticking out like a sore thumb among the Unsullied and Dothraki occupying the land. It didn't help that they couldn't understand a lick of what anyone said, save for a precious few of the Dragon Queen's allies.

He thought to retreat further into his daydreams about home when he heard someone approaching. He braced himself for a conversation with Tyrion who would yet again go on and on about bending the knee as if it made a difference –because if someone needed him for anything, it was never his choice to engage; as a king it was his duty no matter what he wanted, like _everything_ was– but startled to hear a woman’s voice instead. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” Robb nodded tepidly, the words ‘Your Grace’ dying on his lips before he could say them.

He hesitated to refer to Daenerys by her title when she didn’t offer him the same courtesy, but they were hardly close enough to call each other by their first names. Last names seemed a bit uncalled for as well, considering that they weren’t on such bad terms that it would prompt hostility between them.

He would settle for calling her nothing at all, then.

In a way, it felt like a power play of sorts, though he would have much preferred it if they could address one another as equals and not enemies.

Politics exhausted Robb beyond belief and for a fleeting moment, he wished he had heeded Sansa’s counsel and sent her here in his stead.

_Better to keep her safe and far away from this_, Robb reminded himself with conviction.

“Is it true?” Daenerys asked, her voice feather light as she settled on the ground beside him, uncaring that the sand would leave dust marks on her gown.

He wasn’t sure what she meant. There were so many things she could be asking about, likely assumptions based on whatever rumors her spymaster or her Hand had whispered into her ear to deter her from forging an alliance with him. The strangest of the rumors he had heard was that he had gathered an army of wargs who fought his battles with him, a thousand wolves filling his armies. If only he could have such a group on his vanguard. A thousand Grey Winds would do irreparable damage to any enemy, however comical the idea of a wolf army was to him.

After a few moments of weighty silence, she decided to clarify, staring out at the sea as she spoke a name with disdain. “Joffrey. Is he truly as terrible as I’ve been led to believe?”

Robb’s lips tightened involuntarily, his mind jumping to his sister, scarred worse than most soldiers twice her age were, all because that royal prick likened her to his plaything rather than the girl that would have been his wife if not for Theon's impulsive rescue attempt; the mere thought of it brought bile up to his throat.

Leaving her in the capital was one of Robb’s greatest regrets, especially when she came to him herself to recount the horrors she had endured at Joffrey’s hand. His guilt over the matter played a large part in allowing her to marry for love, no matter the stir it caused with his bannermen. As Ned Stark's eldest daughter, her hand was more coveted than any girl in all the North and the Riverlands. Allowing her to choose her own husband was unprecedented. 

It was for the best, though, despite the scuffle it caused.

Theon had been raised alongside them from the time that they were boys, raised by their own father, and it did help some that he spoke like he would follow her to the ends of the earth if need be. He looked at her like the sun shone simply because she asked it to.

After the pain that tyke caused her, Sansa deserved whatever happiness she could find.

“Aye,” Robb sighed, keeping his stare fixed firmly on the waves ahead of him. “The things he’s done…” murdering babes in their beds to protect his nonexistent claim, destroying the realm with his vicious impulses, having Sansa _beaten_ for his own sadistic pleasure, murdering Robb's own lord father in cold blood as if it were all just a game to him... “he’s as vile as they come.”

At that, she seemed to be deep in thought.

Her parents were siblings just as Joffrey’s were, though they were married in the eyes of the Faith. Was it as deep a sin to marry your kin as it was to produce bastards with them? Would the gods even make that distinction between the two, or would one pair burn hotter in the seven hells than the other?

Perhaps the inbreeding was why madness flowed through the Targaryen family’s veins.

“My brother used to tell me stories about my father’s reign,” her voice was so light that he could only just make out her words. “He would tell me that nobles and commoners alike cheered for us, that they toasted in secret for our return and loved us merely for having the name ‘Targaryen’. We were raised on stories that they prayed for our return, day and night. That our father was well-loved and that our brother was valiant but sorely misunderstood.”

She offered him a wry smile, looking at him for the first time since the conversation had begun, bizarrely more bemused than upset at the topic of conversation.

“But that isn’t true, is it?” She prodded although Robb didn’t answer, not knowing quite what to say to that. For as long as he could remember, her family name was a word associated with madness and dragonfire. He couldn’t imagine anyone praying for their homecoming. “Ser Jorah once told me that the smallfolk care not about our game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace.”

Robb couldn’t help but think of the slaughter at Harrenhal, so many Northerners and Rivermen put to the sword simply because The Mountain wanted to have his fun with them.

War did nothing but destroy lives.

“My family has harmed yours irreparably,” Daenerys asserted, her tone as melancholic as it was determined. Robb looked to her with confusion. “Unforgivably. It is not my place to ask for your forgiveness, just as it is not yours to forgive me.” Her eyes were like a dusk storm, calm with a hint of wildness brewing beneath the surface. He was unused to the hypnotic quality that Valyrian features were so unfailingly famed for. “I only ask that you give our families a chance to start anew.”

It was difficult to deny her the chance for a new start.

“I cannot give you the North,” Robb sighed, the conversation exhausted beyond his capacity for patience. “Even if you were a saint reborn, I couldn’t give it to you.”

The queen exhaled as if she anticipated that he would be reluctant to give the North to her. She looked down at the ground beneath them, reaching her index finger forward to draw spiral patterns in the sand.

“What do you suppose would have happened to the North if Torrhen Stark hadn’t knelt for Aegon and his dragons?” She spoke carefully as if anticipating that he would be angered by the thought that she would even consider dragonfire to be an option, as if it wasn’t exactly what he had feared for the entire journey to Dragonstone. “If he hadn’t done what was best for his land and the people in it?”

It was far tamer than what he had expected, to be sure.

“You’re going to burn us then?” Robb cracked a disbelieving smile, letting humor seep into his tone. He was certain that she was bluffing, especially after all the fuss she made about not being a queen of bones. “Raze the North to the ground if I don’t submit?”

“I didn’t come here to sit upon a throne of ashes,” Daenerys frowned. “This… the throne, Westeros… it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of since I was a girl. Your lords call me ‘foreigner’ as if it was my choice to leave. As if I had a home in Essos at all.”

This was a side of her that he hadn’t seen in his four days on the island—a side that he hadn’t expected to see from the composed woman who carried herself like a seasoned battle commander most of the time rather than a girl who had barely been a queen for as long as he had been a king.

He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that she was younger than him, albeit by a few moons.

“When I liberated the slaves of Astapor, of Yunkai, of Meereen…” she started, a pensive look on her face that seemed to hold a thousand regrets at once. “The masters bid me to return back to Westeros. They tried to threaten me, intimidate me, bribe me. Any way they could, they begged me to leave. They proclaimed that I was just a foreign conqueror who destroyed their way of living by breaking the wheel that enabled them to sell the poor for their own profit.”

The thought made Robb nauseous.

He hadn’t heard much about her liberation of the cities of Slaver’s Bay, only that the economy of the cities had suffered for her conquest.

If she had truly done it to save those who could not save themselves, perhaps she wasn’t the monster he feared she was. It unsettled him further to think that finances were all people could think about when enslavement was being debated.

He didn’t have much time to think on her statement when she continued, her voice pleading as if all she craved was for him to understand why she had come here to take a country she had never lived in. If he was being honest, he had wondered it for himself before he had even entertained her with conversation. “Tell me, Robb Stark, where would you go if you were in my position?”

“Home,” he offered, something unnerving swimming about in his chest. Was she not as Westerosi as he was, even if she had grown up leagues from here? As much as he tried to prevent her from swaying his opinion, she was chipping through his resolve slowly but surely.

“Home,” Daenerys repeated softly. “That is what I’ve prayed for from the time I was a child. My mother brushing my hair out beside a fireplace, Rhaegar strumming a hymn on the high harp while his children play at his feet, Viserys laughing without a care in the world, my father smiling… sane…” she blinked back tears, the sight of her grief almost knocking the sense out of him. He stopped himself before he could reach out and embrace her, if only to make her smile.

“No matter how hard I prayed, family was one luxury that the gods would never give to me,” Daenerys squared her jaw and turned her face as if to conceal her sorrow from Robb, as if she thought he would judge her if he saw her weakness for himself. “I don’t remember what it was like before but Viserys did. It drove him mad. He threatened to carve my child from my stomach before his death, as if it was a prize for him to claim rather than the blood of his blood.”

“Your child?” Robb repeated, utterly befuddled. She hadn’t carried the dragons in her womb, had she?

He heard that she suckled them as a mother to human children would, but that was likely just a vicious rumor started to make her seem like a madwoman, just as the Southroners of King’s Landing gossiped that he fed on the flesh of his fellow man. It was all just propaganda devised by enemies, from his experience.

He knew precious little about this woman, though it seemed that most people had no clue as to what she had been doing other than what had been communicated by the bitter high lords she had wronged in Essos. In that regard, he supposed they weren’t all that different from one another.

She didn’t cry though there was a vulnerability to her expression that wasn’t there before, an anguish lingering deep beneath the surface.

“Stillborn.” She murmured and the word sobered him some.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out.

“It’s been years now,” Daenerys granted, glancing up at the skies as if she was reminiscing on the childhood she never had. “My dragons… they’re the only children I’ll ever have. I've come to accept that I was never meant for conventional motherhood.”

“Why?” Robb blurted out like a proper idiot. “Do you not wish to marry?”

“Do you have someone in mind?” She jested, her voice still a bit somber though her mood had lightened. “My husband was killed with blood magic. I will never bear a living child, not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. It was prophesied to me when he died, by the witch who killed him. My line dies with me.”

Robb furrowed his brows, a little confused that someone so seemingly rational would hang onto such a trivial thing as prophecy. He supposed that with dragons at her disposal, not much would seem out of the realm of possibility, no matter how unlikely the superstition of fortune-telling was.

“Prophecy’s a load of horse shit.” After saying the words, he winced at the dismissive way they came out. He attempted to explain himself when Daenerys reeled back with surprise. “All it does is scare people out of living their lives. You can… you can do anything you set your mind to.”

The words came out just a tad too familiar for the situation, but she seemed to appreciate the sentiment behind them, nonetheless. He wouldn’t be cold to her, no matter what decorum required of him; besides, there was no one around to criticize either of them for the lack of formality.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lord Stark.” Daenerys smiled at him, brushing her dress off as if she meant to stand up and leave.

It felt as though they had not only crossed a line in their conversation, but that they had gapped a bridge between them. Which was more important?

He didn’t hesitate to correct her this time. “Your Grace.”

“Pardon?” She raised a brow, knowing exactly what he meant but asking him to explain anyway.

Was she toying with him?

“It’s Your Grace, my queen,” he grinned at her good-naturedly, cocking his head to the side as Grey Wind splashed in the water ahead of them. Robb would not back down now that the words were already out of his mouth. “You’d do well to remember it.”

Daenerys seemed to identify the challenge in his eyes with ease but rather than turn her nose at him or take offense, she allowed her mouth to curve into a smile. “Very well, Your Grace.”

When she bid him farewell and retreated into her castle, he tried not to read too deeply into the teasing edge to her voice.

An alliance would be quicker to broker if they were on good terms with one another, so what was the harm in befriending her?

* * *

Before the sun set, there was a firm knocking at his chamber doors. Robb frowned, wondering which of his men thought to bother him when they would all meet for dinner soon anyhow. When he unlatched the bolt of the wooden door, he was surprised to see a girl -the same handmaiden who he had seen the queen with on the battlements- standing before him.

She dipped into a curtsey instantly, her teeth chattering noticeably from the chill of the wind as she bowed for him. A girl with such a disposition would freeze into a block of ice in the North.

“King Stark,” she addressed him as she rose. “The Khaleesi wishes you to join her for the meal.”

Robb blinked, unsure if he had just misunderstood the girl or if she had just misspoken.

He recognized the title that most of the Dothraki referred to her by but wasn’t sure why she would send for him considering that she took most of her meals with Jorah or Lady Missandei.

Did she expect that all he needed to bend the knee was a slightly tastier meal than usual?

“Now?” He asked dumbly. “With Queen Daenerys?”

“Yes, North King,” she answered, a startling impatience tinging her voice. Did she serve Daenerys out of love, as the rest claimed to? She didn’t seem frightened that Robb would deny the invitation but merely seemed annoyed at his line of questioning. “She is waiting.”

The walk to the queen’s solar was arduous but it was a pleasant change of pace to the little he did otherwise. All he truly did between war councils and doomed attempts at coming to an agreement with Tyrion was either train with his men or find other ways to tide over his boredom.

An attractive man stood guard, half-naked with several bells jingling in his dark hair as he tilted his head to smile down at the handmaiden fondly. Robb shifted between feet, wishing he had thought to bring Grey Wind with him, less for safety and more for the companionship.

It was unnerving to stand in between two people while they spoke about him in another language.

Gods, the man looked strong. If he had more time on the island, perhaps he would have tried to befriend him. He was fetching enough, with a face that would have the likes of Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel fawning and fainting like the little girls he remembered them as. He frowned in remembrance of them, noting that the steward’s daughter hadn’t accompanied Sansa back North. With all of Father’s household that died at the capital, he wouldn’t be surprised if the girl met the same fate. It was bleak, to think of all the faces he would never see again.

“Rakharo,” she acknowledged with a timid smile before spouting something off to him in their tongue. His eyes landed on Robb and remained there for an inordinate amount of time before he conceded and stepped aside for them. The girl entered first, gesturing for him to follow her.

The room was illuminated with only a handful of candles, relatively small for a monarch’s solar though he supposed this was all just temporary if she had it her way. With three dragons at her back and an entire realm turning against Joffrey, he doubted much could go wrong.

“Thank you, Jhiqui,” Daenerys acknowledged as soon as Robb was led into the room, her voice uncharacteristically warm towards the girl, just as it had been a few nights prior. “You may go.”

Jhiqui beamed at her and nodded, curtseying once more before she left them be.

Daenerys was sitting at one end of the long table, an untouched plate of food and chalice in front of her. Her white hair was plaited behind her head, a stark contrast to the black of her outfit. She was watching him now, an amicable smile on her face. “King Robb.”

Although he asked her to refer to him by his title, it sounded strange on her lips, just as it did the first few times that Theon called him ‘Your Grace’ rather than just addressing him as a prick.

He missed simply being Robb sometimes, though he supposed the boy he used to be died the moment his father was taken prisoner.

“Thank you for joining me,” she picked up her fork and knife, cutting into some sort of sea bass. “Please sit. Unless you would prefer to eat standing, Your Grace.”

There it was again.

Robb couldn’t help his burgeoning grin at the tight smile she offered him, amused at how much referring to him as such seemed to pain her. “What’s the occasion?”

Daenerys laughed breezily. “Do I need a reason to want to dine with you?” For a second, his mind raced, completely thrown for a loop. Had she been feeling it too? The tension, the confusion, the connection? With half a dozen excuses prepared on his lips, he fumbled to respond when she popped a bite of fish into her mouth as if she wasn’t the least bit affected by the turn the conversation had taken. “It would be remiss of me not to take every opportunity to get to know a potential ally. That is why you’re still here, is it not?”

He nodded jerkily, feeling properly mortified for thinking this was anything other than the groundwork for an alliance. He made for the seat prepared for him across the table from Daenerys. It was a bit awkward to sit so far away but he knew better than to complain.

“What would you like to know?” Robb asked as his eyes roamed over the greenery on the dish.

He hadn’t seen anything like this in the Riverlands or the North, but he supposed it might just a vegetable native to the South. He reached for a lemon to the side of his dish and squeezed it over the bass, not realizing just how hungry he was until now.

“Tell me of your family,” Daenerys asked of him immediately, as if she had been wondering it for a while. He couldn’t fault her for it, though; it was only fair after what she had divulged to him mere hours ago. “What is home to you, Robb Stark?”

If she had asked him about his family the first time they spoke, he would have been suspicious, afraid even, and inclined to lie. There wasn’t any reason to hide from her now, especially if they hoped to survive the imminent winter together as true allies.

“Winterfell,” he smiled at her, his face only partly illuminated by the light of the candlestick in front of him. “My father was… he was the best man I’ve ever known. There isn’t a day or night that passes that I don’t miss him. He was a solemn man, but he had his moments. I remember when I was five years old and a terror by all my mother’s accounts. She said I never shut up about learning how to swing a sword like a real man, but Father… he humored me. Got me my first practice sword and spent hours teaching me how to use it in the training yard. He could have gotten our master-at-arms to teach me, but he insisted on doing it himself.”

Daenerys was quiet as Robb continued, unable to stop the barrage of memories from swimming to the surface. “He loved my mother more than anything. When we got word that he was executed… it was like a part of her died as well. She advised me throughout the war, guided me where no man could manage to- or even try to do. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

“She sounds like an incredible woman,” Daenerys’ voice was soft and distant, and Robb could see his home so clearly that Winterfell felt more real to him than this room was. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone into such depth, but it was too late for regrets now that he had gone and said it anyways.

“She is,” Robb affirmed proudly. “My sisters take after her in that regard.”

“How many do you have?” She asked, a wistful smile on her lips.

“Two and three brothers. Sansa’s the oldest- she’s…gods, she’s nine-and-ten already. And a bit too clever if you ask me, but she’s saved my arse more times than I can count. She loves songs and poems and all that rubbish. She just got married to my best mate, Theon-”

“The King of the Iron Islands,” Daenerys responded flatly but she annealed her expression quickly so as to not ruin the conversation. “My apologies, go on.”

“He grew up with us, shared our home and hearth. He’s practically been a brother to me. He’s the one that rescued her from the capital when I couldn’t. The loon saved her from the Lannisters on a bloody suicide mission without even telling me where he was going off to, almost got himself killed while he was at it.”

“And that’s why you arranged for them to marry?” She raised her brows, dabbing her lips with her napkin. "To reward him for his loyalty?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Robb’s eyes crinkled around the edges, recalling just how furious his mother was when he first brought up letting them wed. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice after finding them wrapped up in one another, no matter how the sight of it infuriated him at the time. Gods, he had almost beaten Theon into a pulp that day. “Theirs was a love match. I couldn’t have stopped them even if I wanted to.”

He could just imagine the fallout if he had denied Sansa her request. Mother suspected that she orchestrated the entire thing –that she made sure to lose her maidenhead in Robb’s own tent just to get caught in order to force his hand– but he couldn’t be bothered with the semantics of it.

If his sister thought she had to resort to scheming in order to secure a match she desired, then so be it. He would have let her do whatever she wanted, even if she meant to marry a commoner.

Robb had refused her hand to over a dozen Northmen without even entertaining the thought of broaching the subject with her. If she fell in love of her own accord, he would grant her whatever she wanted, but pressuring her into an unwanted political match was the most shameful thing he could think to do. He would never have forgiven himself if he married her off to some lordling who would mistreat her as Joffrey had.

Sansa’s heart had never been Robb’s to give away.

He did feel a bit stupid for not seeing them sneaking around right under his nose, exchanging kisses and love letters with him none the wiser. And for months too, all while he had no idea. The very notion of Theon (_his_ Theon, who whored and gambled and cracked on any girl with a pretty face) romancing his soft-spoken little sister who dreamt of knights and courtly love still confused him. Stranger things happened during wartime, though.

Nevertheless, he was quite sure that Sansa would have just run off with Theon if he denied her a formal marriage with him. She had been willful in her insistence on the match, and the threat she posed him was left unspoken but loomed over him all the same. It was convenient too, that she had been made a queen in her own right upon the Iron Islanders choosing Theon for their king rather than the lordship that he intended to take when he returned to his childhood home.

It brought a smile to Robb's lips now to envision his future nieces and nephews, the blood of his best friend since boyhood and his most cherished sister. What was there to be unhappy about anymore when their happiness was all he could ask for? If not for Theon, Sansa would be trapped in a miserable marriage with the man who murdered her father, forced to live out her days as the little shit's hostage-bride. There were far worse fates than marrying slightly beneath her station.

It was a simple decision, really, no matter how it seemed to shock his allies and enemies alike. 

It would have been worse for them all if he had to explain to his men why his sister and best friend had conveniently gone missing at the same time, and it would have been near-impossible to let Theon escape unscathed if they ever managed to track them down. No one would have believed she was a maid anyways if they had run off together.

Of all the mistakes Robb had made during his campaign, letting his sister marry was not one of them.

Daenerys leaned back in her seat, something plaguing her mind though she didn’t give it a voice.

Remembering what he had been asked earlier, Robb continued.

“Then there’s Arya. She’s seven-and-ten, and might be better with that sword of hers than most of my army. Always up to trouble, but she was worse when she was younger. Mother could never get her to sit still, not for anything. The only books she ever read were about the dragonriders of your family’s legends. She’d quite like to meet you, I wager,” he said the words without thinking, the risk of introducing his sister to the Dragon Queen not lost on him after the fact.

As if realizing the same, Daenerys shot him a polite smile. “I’m sure I would love her.”

They held each other’s eyes from across the table, their gazes sharp yet soft at once, until Robb coughed, almost choking on a fishbone that slipped into his bite without his notice.

Before it could become a cause for concern, he downed the drink to his right, willing himself to just swallow the thing so he could save himself the mortification of suffocating over dinner. His bowels would deal with that problem later on, so long as he didn't humiliate himself in the present.

“Are you quite alright?” She asked concernedly, lifting in her seat as if she meant to call for a guard.

Just then, Robb managed to get the bone down, hot embarrassment coursing through him once he came back to himself.

“Yes, of course.”

“Alright then,” the smallest of smirks hinted at the corner of Daenerys’ lips, the sight of it doing nothing but cause his cheeks to warm even more than before. Did she think him an idiot now? He found it hard to imagine that she could still hold him in any sort of high regard after witnessing him nearly meet his end at the hands -or fins- of a fish carcass. “You were saying?”

His mind went blank for a moment before he recalled what he had been speaking about.

“My brothers, Bran and Rickon at Winterfell were just boys when I last saw them,” his tone darkened. “Bran was pushed from a tower when he was just a boy. We’ve long suspected that it was the queen and her brother’s doing and the Kingslayer admitted as much to my mother once. We’ve still got him in chains at Riverrun, under my grand-uncle’s command.”

Daenerys said nothing but the angry flash of her eyes reassured him that they at least seemed to have a common enemy in Jaime Lannister, not to mention his vicious nephew-son.

“Rickon’s a wild thing from what I remember. Haven’t seen him in years though… once the war’s over, I’ll go riding with him, spar with him, do all the things he never got to experience without Father there,” he thought of his first sword and swore to himself to give Rickon memories that would be just as dear to him in the years to come. “And Jon’s of an age with me. He’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch from what I hear, and a damn good one at that. We write from time to time but it’s not the same as seeing him for true.”

“He’s the bastard then,” Daenerys stated as if remembering a fact Tyrion had briefed her on.

Robb couldn’t help the slight indignation that flared up within him at the sentiment, recalling the abandoned legitimization decree in his solar at Riverrun. Once the war was over, he would come back to it and make Jon a Stark for true, no matter what anyone said. Perhaps he would even find a way to relieve Jon of his vows. There were worse things than losing one man at the Night’s Watch, especially during wartime. He would work it out later.

“He’s my brother,” Robb corrected her firmly.

“And to think, my ancestors tore each other apart over a few bastards.” She mused with purpose, reaching for her fork once more. “They started an entire civil war and then some, simply because of what the others stood to inherit. It seems a bit senseless, doesn’t it?”

“I tried to convince him not to go,” he sighed, encouraged by her understanding of the situation. It wasn’t like his mother would be receptive to such talk about Jon, and Sansa had only just embraced him as their brother again. Theon had a strange rivalry with him that Robb would never understand, and so, Robb was alone in mourning the life his brother could have had.

It felt like there was a lot that he had been holding back so as not to burden his loved ones.

“I never wanted him to leave. He always thought that ‘Snow’ would define him for his entire life, and that his blood made him…” he cut off with a shake of his head, unable to rationalize the decision Jon had made to give his life to the watch. “He was always our brother, always of the North, no matter who his mother was. He’s more like Father than I’ve ever been, to be honest.”

“It sounds like you love them all very much.” Daenerys seemed a little misty-eyed but quickly masked her face with an appreciative smile. “And what of your wife?”

“My wife?” Robb repeated, ever the idiot in the face of her questions.

She looked amused. “Yes, your wife. Lord Tyrion informed me that you’ve recently married.”

“It’s been almost a year,” he replied, his previous enthusiasm gone for some reason. A year wasn’t recent anymore, was it? As much as he cared for Roslin, there was something about her memory that simply didn’t carry the same weight that his childhood home and family did.

_She’s your family too, idiot_.

It would be easier once they could be in each other’s company again, he just knew that it would.

Or perhaps they would meet at Winterfell again just to discover that they had nothing in common and were fated to a life of mutual grudging tolerance, resigned to spend many loveless years together. The thought made Robb feel like he was choking all over again. “She’s pregnant.”

“So I’ve heard,” Daenerys responded exasperatedly as if she expected to hear more about the Queen in the North than the basic facts of her circumstances. As if able to sense Robb’s discomfort at the matter, she refrained from asking him about it anymore, changing the topic deftly. “Ser Jorah has always spoken very highly of the North.”

“I’m sure he has,” Robb retorted before he could stop himself, backtracking instantly at the look of faint surprise on her face. It wouldn’t do him any good if he insulted the woman’s favorite counselor to her face. “Forgive me, he isn’t… well regarded in the North.”

“I see,” she didn’t press the issue, instead letting a thoughtful look flit across her face at whatever question she was hesitating to ask him, seeming to genuinely care about his answer for reasons he couldn’t begin to pinpoint. “Does it snow often there?”

“In Winterfell?” Robb asked, surprised that she was so hesitant to ask the simplest question of the evening. He tried to recall the feeling of ice between his hands and snowflakes on his tongue. “All the time. It’s better on the days when there’s no rain or mush mixed in, when it’s just soft and powdery. Sometimes it snows so heavily that the doors get blocked off by it.”

“Truly?” She asked with all the innocence of a child, none of her cool regality anywhere to be seen. Had she never seen snow before? Robb frowned, trying to recall his lessons about Essos. He had taken them with Jon and Theon but they weren’t ever interested in matters of climate or trade; he remembered the three of them at eleven and twelve years old, chanting ‘horse lords’ at Maester Luwin until he caved and told them about the Dothraki again. “Even before winter?”

“From what I remember, winter’s the worst time for it. Mother wouldn’t let any of us leave the castle without at least four layers of fur and even then, barely let us out of her sights.” He chuckled at the memory of his mother fretting over them, wrapping close to half a dozen scarves around Theon’s neck in a rare show of affection to her ward. Even Jon had gotten a knit cap or two when winter had come and gone in less than a year’s time. "Once, we all gathered around the fireplace and conjured up false legends to tell each other.”

He remembered that day well- he had made up a tale of a brave knight who traveled the world to find his lady love and slayed hundreds mythical creatures to earn her favor, doing anything and everything he could manage to get back to the love of his life, no matter what obstacles stood in their way.

Beasts and pirates could do nothing to stop his hero from getting back to his lady love. Sansa had cooed at the story and raved about it for hours, even after hearing Theon’s horrifying tale of krakens and blood magic that left her in tears.

He recalled his mother forcing Theon to reluctantly apologize to little Sansa as Arya and Bran crawled about on the ground, too young to understand any of what was happening. The boy had scuffed his shoes on the floor, staring resolutely at a space in the wall behind Sansa as he apologized and practically froze in his place when she lurched forward to hug him, proclaiming that she had never been so terrified in her life but forgave him for scaring the socks off of her.

Was it truly so long ago that they were children?

“I’d love to see it someday,” Daenerys’ voice drew him back into reality, her eyes seeming to see straight through him. No longer was she just looking at him, but she was _seeing_ him.

Did she mean the snow? Or Winterfell?

The conversation flowed easily as Robb asked her about her counselors and journeys in Essos, about Dothraki customs and Meereenese politics, and the plays that traveling mummers would put on about Westerosi affairs, chatting away endlessly about everything and nothing at once.

“He always wanted to be a knight,” Robb’s brows crashed together as he poured his next glass of wine. “He climbed like he was born to do it. When he fell, it…” he paused, feeling a little better at the sympathetic smile he was offered. “I’d rather be dead, he told me. And I knew he believed it. I haven’t seen him since then, since I called the banners. I miss him every day.”

“He knows that,” she announced with conviction, all but abandoning her plate in favor of the wine in her goblet. “He does, no matter how long it’s been. And you write, don’t you?”

Perhaps he ought to try filling his pages some more. He was the worst at writing lines upon lines of sentences, leaving the dramatic soliloquies to his sister, but it might be worth the effort.

“Aye,” he admitted, just now remembering that a question had been asked.

Daenerys’ upturned lips quirked once more. “Then he knows.”

Topic to topic, conversation to conversation, they seemed to bring the room to life with their combined energy, confiding in one another in a way he never could have anticipated that they would earlier in the night.

Who would have thought that they could become as close to friends as two monarchs at odds could manage? Certainly not Robb.

Five drinks later, they were practically keeled over with laughter.

“And he said,” Daenerys stifled her grin to deepen her voice somewhat, the sound of it comical enough to make Robb double, though the two flagons of wine he had consumed by his lonesome may have helped with that, “-Viserys could not sweep a stable with ten thousand brooms.”

“He said that?” Robb snorted into his wine, unable to picture the sullen old man making japes of any sort. “_Jorah Mormont_ said that?” He shook his head. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Daenerys nodded amidst her laughter, bringing her seventh – or was it her eighth? – cup to her lips. The stuff wasn’t too strong by itself, but they had drunk enough of it that it reduced them to children rather than a king and queen in their own rights.

He hadn’t laughed like this in what felt like _years_. If only Joffrey could see them now, japing at his expense like they had been friends for a lifetime.

He’d likely piss his boots.

Nearly four hours had passed by the time that they parted for the evening, and he felt something stir in his chest at the realization that he couldn’t prolong the conversation any further.

She stood and for a mad moment, he thought that she might hug him.

He tried not to feel disappointed when she stepped around him to put a hand on the handle of the oak door, glancing back at him through bleary eyes. She wasn’t Queen Daenerys to him anymore, though propriety dictated that she should be; she was a young girl with a crown thrust upon her head and expectations she would never quite live up to, just as he was.

“Goodnight,” she smiled up at him, seemingly the same as it had always been but even more _beautiful_ somehow.

The spiced wine succeeded in muddying his head beyond reason and sense, but oddly enough, he had never felt such clarity in his life.

She had the makings to be a good queen to the people; just and kind-hearted but not so easily bent that the kingdoms would spiral out of her control. Looking at her now, just a woman with a dream of making the world a better place, Robb had never thought anyone so worthy.

His chest constricted painfully when she brushed past him on her way out.

* * *

An invitation was extended to him and his men the next morning to break their fast with Daenerys. His company obliged albeit reluctantly, but there was an unexpected warmth with which they were greeted in the dining hall when they entered. If his men thought anything about the change in tone, they said nothing.

As it turned out, there were no hidden stores of better food for the Dragon Queen's entourage as Donnel speculated to them when they cringed over their gruel days earlier. It was a pity, considering that better food was the selling point Robb had used to get his mates excited about sharing their meal with strangers.

He found himself squeezed in between Patrek and Owen, scooping runny eggs from his plate awkwardly as Missandei and Irri made conversation with Daenerys across from them. He couldn't make out what they were saying over the sound of people's forks scraping against their plates, so he settled on eavesdropping.

“-your mother?” Robb tuned into the conversation occurring to his far left, a pleading look fixed on Jorah Mormont’s face as Dacey Mormont seethed to herself. She was doing better than Robb would have given her credit for, considering that she hadn't made an attempt yet to cut the man's throat with the small blade sticking out of her honey-dipped bread. If he kept talking, Robb wasn't sure how long he would keep his head for. “Please, my lady, at least tell me how our house fares.”

Gods, did the man ever quit? If he cared all that much about his house, he wouldn't have bankrupted it to finance his wife's whims in the first place.

Her chair screeched against the ground, causing every eye to fly to the pair of Mormonts. Grey Worm straightened in his seat as if preparing himself for a battle and Robb gripped at his fork as the situation unraveled; Dacey stood above her cousin, baring her teeth at him as if a bear for true.

“You lost the privilege to call it our house when you damned us all for a lifetime with your Hightower whore,” she snapped. Jorah Mormont staggered back as if uttering his lost wife's name was enough to conjure her from the air. “Where _is_ the little bitch anyhow? I don’t see her here.”

“Dacey-”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Dacey spat at the ground before him, leaving her mostly untouched plate to grow cold when she spun on her heels, her sword at her side and a storm in her eyes. Robb exhaled as she passed him on her way out and wrenched the door open.

“My apologies,” Jorah was addressing Robb now, to his surprise, choosing to apologize on Dacey's behalf rather than his own. He fought the urge not to roll his eyes at the nerve of the old coot, caring little for whatever he had to say. As far as he was concerned, the man was a war criminal with next to no sense of honor; he wasn't worth his time. “I didn’t realize my cousin would react so strongly.”

“The North remembers, Mormont,” Rodrik bit out at him angrily before Robb could do so much as consider responding. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already, holed up in Essos for so long.”

“No more than your brother has, my lord,” the older man remarked to their surprise, toeing over a dangerous line. If Rodrik’s father were here, he’d draw his sword on the spot for the insult. Luckily for Mormont, Lord Gregor was commanding a garrison in the northern Riverlands, unable to defend the exile of his second son in person. Judging by the look on Rodrik’s face, things would escalate even further if he didn’t put a stop to it now. The tension in the air was palpable, so much that it soured the taste of the already unappetizing food in Robb’s mouth. A bit annoyed that they were poking at each other while others were breaking their fast, Robb raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple. Gone were the times that he could just have a laugh about things like this while his father resolved it for him.

“Sit down, the both of you.” Robb interrupted irritably, not mincing any words with the Northmen bickering in front of him. “You’re making a scene.”

Though Ser Jorah wasn’t beholden to any of the Stark king’s commands, he straightened at the words. Mormont shot a glance at Daenerys before clearing his throat and returning to his seat on her side of the table, the tips of his ears reddened with embarrassment. Robb couldn’t find it in himself to pity him, unable to fathom the choices he made leading up to his exile. What kind of man sold _people_ to pay for his spoiled wife's expensive tastes? “My apologies.”

A comfortable silence followed.

When Robb glanced across the table mid-bite, Daenerys was staring at him with soft eyes.

He couldn’t help but return the gaze with equal affection, lying determinedly to himself that his regard for her was just for the sake of a burgeoning alliance between their kingdoms. When her face broke out into a smile, he knew he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

* * *

The next two days were spent much the same.

Daenerys started to invite him to dine with her every night to which he always agreed, tingles coursing through his body that were harder to ignore with every moment he spent in her company. Denying her requests would just set a negative precedent for their alliance, so he had little choice in the matter; if spending time with her would solidify his country its independence, then it was a small price to pay for it. She made for rather charming company when they were alone, anyhow. 

When she would glance at him over her wine, gifting him with her burning smiles, he never failed to feel a flock of butterflies crash into each other in his stomach; they were desperate to be let out and spill into the open air. The feeling was quite jarring, actually. It made him feel as sick to his stomach as it excited him.

Nothing ever happened, and nothing would ever happen, but he couldn’t help the traitorous thoughts that came to him when she would address him in that _way_ she always did that grated on his nerves as much as it made him fall deeper into his ill-fated infatuation with her.

It was nothing.

That was what he told himself at night when all he could see beneath his eyelids were silver hair and a smile almost as bright as the sun.

It was plain to see that nearly every man and woman in her service was half in love with her already, so perhaps there was some aphrodisiac or another in her perfume that made her so irresistible to her companions. He couldn't seem to control the thrill that shot through him when he saw her, even when every rational part of Robb’s mind screamed at him to just quit his staring at her and act as his father would have in this situation.

Even Father slipped up once, though.

It was with Ashara Dayne and not some lowborn girl like everyone thought, according to Ros on the second —and last— night that he’d had her in the winter town’s brothel. If Ros was to be believed, Lady Ashara had been so consumed with grief when he married someone else and slayed her own brother that she threw herself into the sea. Robb had refused to believe it at the time, unable to accept the notion that his father might have loved a woman before his mother.

What was true love between a husband and a wife if there was an odd person out to sully the story that they had built together? Mother and Father always doted on each other, and a love like theirs was what Robb had dreamed of having since the time he was a boy. As often as he made jokes at Sansa's expense for her daydreams about romance, his own fancies about it hadn't been much different. All he had ever wanted in his youth was a wife with kind eyes and a gentle heart, and enough children to fill an entire castle with. He cared not for glory and power, especially not after being made king. He'd tasted enough of it for a lifetime.

The thought of his parents' marriage being built on lies and betrayal was distressing, and certainly wasn't something that Robb wanted to think about while he was taking a woman on her hands and knees. That being said, Jon had to have come from _somewhere_ and Ashara Dayne was as sensical an option as any.

Ros was a talker, though, and persisted in telling him about the whispers she had heard among the smallfolk until he pleaded with her to let the rumors rest and use her mouth in other ways. He never returned after that conversation, even when Theon bade him to accompany him again, several times over.

If even Father, the most honorable man in the entirety of Westeros, couldn’t manage to keep his head straight around a woman, what hope did Robb have to do anything but follow in his footsteps?

If Daenerys even wanted him, he found it difficult to reconcile the thought of becoming an oathbreaker in any way, be it to the North or his wife.

What could he even offer to the famed Mother of Dragons that another man couldn’t give her himself? Nay, he was being ridiculous merely by entertaining the thought that his unbidden feelings weren’t entirely unreciprocated. He could practically hear Theon’s obnoxious laughter ringing in his head –_you just had to graft on the one with the dragons, didn’t you?_– and wanted more than anything to jump onto the first boat he saw and sail far away from here, back to Winterfell and away from all this politicking. If he weren’t a king, he would have left in a heartbeat.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the peal of laughter that escaped the Dragon Queen’s lips.

Whatever Lord Tyrion said must have been funny, though he didn’t miss the subtle way that her eyes flicked to meet Robb’s, as if gauging to see if he found the jape humorous as well. Robb cracked a smile despite himself, craving her approval for reasons that he didn't dare to try to unpack. She looked away and he felt his heart dip low in his chest, aching for her to reduce him into a lovelorn boy once more with just a look.

Gods, he was a Stark of Winterfell. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

Daenerys was beautiful. He had known that since he first laid eyes on her; before that even, when all anyone at Riverrun could talk about was how the most beautiful woman in the world had apparently come to set fire to Westeros in her dead father’s name. But her beauty wasn’t the problem.

She wasn’t the first beautiful woman Robb had seen. He could think of many off the top of his head from Ros, to Wynafryd Manderly, to Ella at Last Hearth, to Queen Cersei, to Talisa, to the serving girl with dark hair at Harrenhal, to Roslin… Robb had seen his fair share of beautiful girls over the years.

If beauty was all that mattered, he would have fallen in love with Roslin the moment she was presented to him after his return from cleaning up the Mountain’s mess in the eastern Riverlands. If that was all that mattered, he would have bedded the first servant that looked his way, or could have ignored Sansa’s pleas to follow through with his agreement with the Freys, or he even could have asked Talisa for another chance when they encountered one another at Lannisport.

Robb was no stranger to the weaponization of outward beauty.

Looking at Daenerys now, laughing as if she had been plucked out of a fairy story with no idea as to how mesmerizing she was, Robb felt like a green boy all over again, inexperienced and at a loss for how to proceed from here.

For all that he thought he knew his heart, it seemed to surprise him at every turn.

* * *

The Dornish would arrive at Dragonstone before long.

From what Robb could piece together of Tyrion’s oddly phrased announcement of their arrival, they were plotting to destroy Joffrey’s reign from the inside. Once the tides of the war turned enough for the Red Viper to persuade the Tyrells to abandon the king’s cause, there would only be one army standing between their armies and justice for the death of his father.

One death and this entire war would be over.

The thought of it almost seemed too good to be true. Robb’s thoughts turned to the North. That was why he was here, wasn’t he? He didn’t have a doubt in his mind that Daenerys would seize the throne she wanted so badly, but these war councils put him on-edge. The fate of the North always seemed to be a matter that no one wanted to broach, least of all the Dragon Queen. Did she still truly think that he would be swayed to bend the knee to her?

If she demanded that he kneel despite the connection they shared, he probably would do it to save the North, but should he?

If Dacey had a say, she would fight until their homes were all but rubble, and a good portion of his army would likely rather die fighting Southron kings and queens than be ruled by them. But the way Robb saw it, tens of thousands of lives weren’t worth his pride.

_Let me be the King Who Lost the North_, Robb thought angrily. _If I must, I will bend._

Mother would counsel him to bend the knee if she were here, he was almost sure of it. She was ready to have him kneel for Renly Baratheon, and the man hadn’t even had dragons to threaten him with. His pride wasn’t comparable to peace, so long as the person sitting on the Iron Throne was worthy.

The land had bled enough by this point, hadn’t it?

_I can’t afford to make a mistake. _Robb reminded himself as he stared over the painted table at Daenerys. Her brow was furrowed with concentration as she listened to Tyrion’s briefing of the state of the Bay of Dragons, and how her mercenaries were doing at keeping the peace. Not well, from the sound of it, but not terrible either._ One slip and the North will suffer for a lifetime._

The conversation abruptly turned back to the Dornish when the spymaster brought up transporting more of her army to Dragonstone from across the Narrow Sea, citing that it would even the odds against the Lannisters and Tyrells somewhat to have her full army backing her rather than fragments of it.

“We barely have the resources to feed the men we have now,” Daenerys gritted out as her eyes flicked between the sword-shaped map markers placed on Meereen. “How do you expect that we’ll house a hundred-thousand soldiers on an island a sixth the size of Astapor?”

The number she provided nearly knocked the wind out of Robb. A hundred-_thousand_ soldiers all chose to follow her with no clue as to what her birthright even meant. Her claim to the a WesterosiThrone couldn't mean anything to the Essosi and yet, here they were, fighting to claim it for her.

“Once the smallfolk and his allies have turned on my nephew, he’ll be strong-armed into surrendering, Your Grace,” Lord Tyrion claimed confidently, more so than Robb would have done in his situation. How could he know that for certain? “It will only be a matter of time before you have the resources of the Reach and crownlands at your disposal. The Dornish-”

“Should not be trusted so freely,” Ser Barristan spoke up from the other side of the queen, drawing surprised eyes from every corner at his forthrightness. He shifted with discomfort at the attention but continued speaking, hand on the pommel of his sword as if it were second nature to him. “They could betray you as easily as they’ve betrayed the crown, Your Grace. I urge you to exercise caution when dealing with them.”

He paused, as if bracing himself for a negative reaction when Daenerys merely gestured for him to keep speaking. “Go on, Ser Barristan,” she encouraged him.

Father had revered this man once, almost more than any other man in all of the Seven Kingdoms; while Lord Stark told the children countless stories about Ser Barristan’s legendary valor on the battlefield, Mother had softened them the tales of his trials as a tourney night, all romance and softness.

He recalled being nine years old and swinging his wooden sword in Theon’s general direction, releasing what he thought to be a proper battle-cry before proclaiming himself to be Ser Barristan Selmy, the strongest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. Jon had laughed openly at him, missing out on his opportunity to charge at either of the boys, proclaiming that _no_, Arthur Dayne was the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms, to which Theon had argued that if he had been all that great, he wouldn’t have died in the first place.

Then the game had been all but forgotten as Jon and Theon started squabbling.

It was strange to think that a man who had once been a distant childhood hero of his was standing here now, following a woman barely younger than Robb himself.

“Prince Rhaegar was married to their princess once, Your Grace,” Barristan explained, ever formal no matter the circumstance. His eyes briefly met Robb’s across the table, a flicker of guilt in them. “But he abandoned her when he chose to start a war for the Stark girl. I would not presume them to have forgiven your family for the slight, least of all for the deaths of the prince and princess. Gregor Clegane may have dealt the blows, but your brother left them vulnerable to the attack.”

Father rarely spoke about the sister he lost in the war, but Robb never spent much time dwelling on it. Now he couldn’t imagine his grief and rage freezing inside of him as it had for his Father. If Sansa had died in the capital, the very same age at that time that their aunt had been when she perished in the South, Robb would have gutted every single Lannister to avenge her. Even the thought of his sister meeting that fate drove him to a fury he could barely reconcile.

Perhaps there was more Tully than Stark in him, after all.

“The Dornish wouldn’t gamble so carelessly with their fates,” Jorah Mormont argued passionately and Dacey fumed, restraining herself better than she did a few nights prior. “The act of even treating with you is treasonous, my queen. Betraying you wouldn’t benefit them now, least of all when they could so easily be caught.”

“The Dornish do not begrudge you for your brother’s mistakes, Your Grace.” The bald spymaster chirped with a meaningful look. “They hold only the Lannisters accountable for what befell Elia Martell and her children. However, their loyalty would be unwavering if you delivered the true culprits to them if betrayal is what you fear.”

Tyrion exchanged a pointed look with Daenerys as if the two were in on some secret that Robb had not been privy to.

Silence pervaded the room for a few long moments before she spoke, not keeping him in the dark for long. “If I delivered Tywin Lannister to them, you mean.”

“I mean no disrespect, Your Grace,” Varys backtracked submissively as if he expected rage in place of confusion. “It is only the truth. Lord Tywin and Ser Gregor were responsible for the massacre that ensued when the city was sacked. The young prince and princess... their brutalized corpses were wrapped in crimson and gold and presented to Robert Baratheon, your niece and nephew. It is said that the usurper smiled at the sight.”

“So I should put them to the sword once the time comes?” Daenerys interrupted, her face carefully blank as if to not reveal her true feelings.

Tyrion didn’t look half as anxious as Robb would have been if it were his father’s life on the line. He wouldn’t attempt to understand the familial relationships that the Lannisters had with one another, not after all he had heard about the Kingslayer and Queen Cersei. The twisted branches of their family tree were too convoluted for him to even begin to try understanding the state of their affairs. It was said that the apple did not fall far from the tree.

“The Mountain’s pillaged half the Riverlands for his own pleasure. He slaughtered hundreds of Northmen at Harrenhal,” Robb heard himself pipe up, though the words seemed to be flowing of their own accord. Everyone was looking at him now. “I would see him brought to justice.”

“I appreciate your input, King Robb,” Daenerys’ eyes were smiling even if her mouth wasn’t, and time seemed to suspend between them, heavy and filled with _something_ he couldn’t quite place.

A coughing sound broke the moment and Robb averted his gaze to see Jorah staring at him with something indecipherable in his eyes, moving it further down the line to a number of questioning looks being thrown at him from his own men, most tinged with incredulity and a hint of anger. Even Olyvar was staring determinedly at the ground as if he had seen something that he troubled him more than he could bear to look at.

Varys filled the silence with his ramblings. “Ser Gregor would be no loss to us, Your Grace, and giving him to the Dornish would appease them. Lord Tywin will not bend to you, even if you brought the strength of your armies and dragons to his doorstep. He would rather die than allow you to take what is his.”

“I’m well aware,” Daenerys cut in and eyed the war table as if just realizing something glaringly obvious. “The Lannisters will crumble without him at their head.”

Varys nodded. “Assuredly. But the question remains,” he eyed the board with an understanding that he oft pretended not to have of warfare strategy. “How do we draw him out of hiding?”

* * *

On the first day of his second week at Dragonstone, Daenerys reached out to him herself rather than through a liaison.

It was half-past midday and he was wandering through one of the many broken-down towers connecting to the Targaryen holdfast. It was strange to imagine that a hundred heroes and villains from the history books had graced these halls and had likely stood where he was standing right now, staring at the view ahead of him. Did the sea look the same to them a century or two ago? Was it bigger, somehow, before he had landed on this island?

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” a soft voice interrupted his thoughts, though there was an edge to it that he didn’t think he would ever understand.

He turned slowly to see Daenerys standing before him, the slightest suggestion of a smile curving at her lips; there was a twinkle in her violet eyes, as if she knew his every secret without having to say a word. Her hair flowed down her shoulders, somehow making for a sight that belonged on a tapestry in a sept somewhere and not for mortal consumption.

Surprised not to see her handmaidens trailing behind her, Robb let his hands flounder at his side, unsure as to how he should even begin to greet her. Grey Wind bound forward as soon as he caught sight of a raven leaving the rookery upstairs, abandoning Robb by his lonesome.

Had she been looking for him or was this a chance meeting?

“You're not,” he responded easily through the massive lump in his throat, thankfully not letting on to how flustered he truly felt at her intrusion. “Just admiring the view.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Daenerys stepped in line with him, her gaze firmly set on the seas before them. “The Sea Dragon Tower. Aenar Targaryen settled here prior to the Doom of Valyria with five dragons of his own. Only one survived being brought to Westeros. The great Balerion,” Robb chanced a glance at her to see her expression shift to one of longing. “Here, he started a dynasty, one that lasted hundreds of years... one that ends with me.”

“You don’t know that,” Robb’s voice was gentler than intended but it seemed appropriate. “You may start one of your own,” when Daenerys turned to look at him with a silent question in her eyes, he cracked a smile. “Or we’ll both just be footnotes in someone else’s history book a thousand years from now.”

“Perhaps a footnote might be a kinder fate for the both of us,” she responded dryly to which he chuckled to himself.

Were it that he could have remained the boy he used to be rather than the king he had been forced to become.

A footnote wouldn’t be the worst way to be remembered, though he doubted that would be the case for either of them. The first King in the North in centuries and the Mother of Dragons weren’t likely to be forgotten for years to come, no matter how their stories played out or ended. Even if historians to come turned their backs on either of their legacies, they would at the very least be remembered for changing the very order of the Westerosi political sphere.

Before he could voice it aloud, Daenerys resumed her thought from earlier, a coy look in her eyes. “I wanted to know if you would accompany me outside. I have something I would like to show you.”

He eyed her skeptically, but his curiosity got the best of him despite the strange nature to her request. Rarely did Daenerys ever seek him out, much less be so vague about it. Robb obliged, strolling confidently by her side as they left the tower just to enter another, not even bothering to pretend that he knew where they were going. They made idle small talk as they walked across what must have been the entire castle, chatting aimlessly about when Robb expected that winter would be here and how he planned on preparing the North for it as they ambled along the beach together.

He recoiled as soon as he caught sight of her beasts tearing some poor livestock apart on the sand, feasting on its raw flesh monstrously.

There were only two on the beach, the last one —the one with the yellow wings— swimming through the water and nipping at it as if hoping to catch some fish in its massive mouth. Robb nearly backed up at the sight of her larger dragon, black and scaled like every storybook from his childhood about the Black Dread had promised it would look like.

“Are you afraid?” Daenerys asked as if daring him not to be.

He couldn’t look away from the dragons, not when they were chewing on a sheep corpse as if their lives depended on it.

_It’s the only time a man can be brave_, he heard a resounding voice in his head, followed by another distinctive one, both sharing the same sentiment. The advice didn't make him any less afraid that he would be roasted where he stood if he made one wrong move. _It means you’re not stupid_.

He willed himself not to shake like a leaf when he turned to her and shrugged. “A bit.”

Her face broke out into a smile and he couldn’t help but return it in full.

Robb wrenched his gaze back over to her dragons after holding hers for a moment too long. As frightening as they were, Father had always taught him to look fear directly in the face. Surely they wouldn’t burn him into a crisp while Daenerys was right here, would they?

She took his hand and the act of it sent a jolt through his body, one that he couldn’t explain away even as she led him forward.

When she let it go to sprint towards her dragon as if she feared neither death nor the gods, he couldn’t help but stare after her in awe.

“Drogon,” she cooed at the creature, whispering a stream of adoring words to it as if she was truly its mother. Robb took a hesitant step forward only to lock eyes with the green one, the beast glaring at him as if in warning that another step would earn him a spot as its next meal.

Eventually, Daenerys turned back to Robb, brighter faced than he had ever seen her. The wind behind her tangled her hair somewhat and her eyes were shining as if she had been smiling for her entire life, nose wrinkling as she caught a whiff of the briny smell of the ocean.

She was like a dream.

He wasn’t sure when he started noticing the changes within her; her pain, her happiness, her grief, her excitement… it was all he seemed to search for when they were in each other’s orbit. He was charmed by her, of course, but it didn’t mean anything. Half her advisers admired her as is— what difference would his own unwanted affections even make when thrown into the mix?

It was just an infatuation, perfectly natural for anyone to feel after spending an extensive amount of time with someone that they found physically attractive.

He didn’t intend on acting on whatever had possessed him to care for her as more than… whatever he had intended for her to be to him.

At the best-case scenario, she would be an ally, and at the worst, she would be his murderer; now it seemed that she had become something else entirely. He had a wife. He had a wife and though their marriage was one between strangers, he still belonged to her. His heart was not his own to give away anymore, not that it ever had been. As much as he wished that it had been created for love, duty was all that it had been fashioned for. And who said duty could not become love with time?

Perhaps their connection might help their alliance, make her understand why the North needed its independence. If he could just get through to her, mayhaps they could forge a friendship of sorts, a true one that wasn’t motivated by politics or scheming or anything of the like.

“This is Drogon,” Daenerys ran a hand over the beast’s scales lovingly, looking at the dragon as if it were a babe tucked away in a cradle. Her love for the creatures was clear from the sight of her smile, and Robb felt touched that she was inclined to share her love for them with him. “And his brothers, Viserion and Rhaegal.”

His heart caught in his throat when she beamed over at him for his approval or commentary or whatever it was that she wanted, mangled into a thousand pieces at the sight of her smile. 

* * *

Robb was ambling through the lower level of the castle when he was approached by Missandei.

She had four letters in hand and though she eyed Grey Wind warily as she greeted him, she smiled at him all the same, trusting that his wolf wouldn’t maul her as so many men feared. Missandei was a brave woman for certain, that much was plain simply by the way she carried herself.

She seemed to always keep her queen’s company, as well; if he didn’t know any better, he would assume that Missandei was the true Hand of the Queen over Tyrion Lannister. Robb hardly ever had much to say to her, but he found that she was as entertaining a conversationalist as anyone he had ever met. There was something genuine to her inquiries about the North as well— nothing like the posturing of some of the riverlords he had come to know. He quite liked her.

“Thank you, Lady Missandei,” Robb smiled warmly at her when she handed the letters off to him, to which she curtseyed politely and left him to his thoughts.

Glancing down, he fiddled with the pieces of parchment, trying to make out their contents even in the darkness of the hall.

Two of the letters had the Greyjoy sigil stamped onto them with wax, one grey and the other yellow, while the third had a red trout emblazoned on the front, and the fourth had a grey direwolf howling up at him. They were all from members of his family based on sigils alone.

He waited until he was safely confined in his chambers to read the letters, poring over them carefully in hopes that nothing had gone awry while he was away.

_My dearest brother, _the first letter read in Sansa’s recognizable flowy scripture. _After an arduous journey across the Riverlands, I am pleased to inform you that I have arrived safely at Maidenpool. It has been delightful to be in Theon's company once more, especially after the circumstances of the war kept us apart for so long. It is my hope that the war ends before long so that we might be able to return home, all a family once more. The men that you sent to accompany me on this journey have been nothing but gallant and true servants to the North. Lord Alesander has been a great source of amusement throughout my journey; his singing has brought me great-_

Robb tore his eyes from the paper, already feeling a yawn begin to creep on him.

It wasn’t Sansa’s fault, really, but she had a habit of rambling through her letters that nearly put him to sleep with just a glance. Unfolding the letter to its full size, his eyes nearly bugged out to see three more pieces of paper, writing spanning every inch of both sides of each sheet of parchment.

Seven hells, how could anyone write that much?

Setting the letter down (because he would read the whole thing through _eventually_), he picked up the next one and tore the seal open.

_Brother,_  
  
_I heard you’ve gone to get the dragons on our side. Don’t get yourself killed while you’re there. Sansa’s safe with me. She’s worried about you. VG reports that he’s secured the Crag. Not looking out west, though. Half the fleet’s here in the pool if you need us. Just say the word._  
  
_Theon Greyjoy_  
_King of the Iron Islands_

Robb grinned at the curt scrawling of Theon’s hand, recognizing the discomfort his friend took in formalities like this. He recalled a time when Maester Luwin complained about the quality of Theon's hand without end during their lessons as young boys. Gods, he missed the prat. Were it that he could have just taken Theon here; with a confidant as close as he was, the circumstances on the island wouldn’t seem so daunting.

If they hadn’t been separated by an ocean when he had decided to make this trip, he likely would have been right at his side, as he had always been in the thick of battle. The gods had blessed him by giving him a friend so loyal as Theon, truly they had. Even at their worst moments, the love they had for each other was stronger than most true brothers by blood bore. For all of his mother's warnings at the beginning of his campaign, he had relished in proving her wrong on the matter of his friend's loyalty.

He set Theon’s letter to the side, making a note to write him back as soon as possible.

If neither of them heard back from Robb soon, they’d likely think that Daenerys had done away with him.

_Your Grace_, the Blackfish’s letter to him started and Robb skimmed it, looking for updates on Edmure or any news on the Bolton’s activity further west of Riverrun. There were only whispers of a confrontation to come, though scouts claimed it would be several weeks yet before the Lannisters could stage an attack. That wasn’t so bad. That gave Robb some time to see the negotiations through without fearing that his mother's childhood home would be overrun.

Arya had scribbled a message for him at the bottom of Brynden's short letter, summing up how her training was coming along under their grand-uncle's tutelage, boasting to Robb about her skills and how she had knocked the boys she practiced with into the dirt.

He made a mental note to write a separate letter to Arya, though he knew full well that he likely wouldn’t get a response- she was nearly as bad as he was when it came to maintaining consistent lines of communication.

The tension that worried its way into his shoulders had already loosened somewhat at the assurance that his armies hadn’t devolved into chaos without him.

The one from his mother described how Rickon had taken to swinging a practice sword around, proclaiming that he would best Robb at single combat once the war was over and they got a chance to spar with one another. Bran was well, according to her letter, though he was beginning to tire of his duties as the interim Lord of Winterfell, and more things about how she was running the household. _Come home_, her words seemed to say though it was never written outright.


	3. shaken my faith in everything else

Daenerys was out on a hunt with her dragons when the Martells arrived at Dragonstone.

Arianne Martell had a curious aura to her, all sneaky smiles and eyes that flitted from one person to another as if she was gauging them for what their secrets were worth. With silks befitting a princess and a guard of almost a dozen men flanking her, her presence was difficult to ignore. In a matter of hours, the Dornish made Dragonstone their own, settling in with far more ease than Robb’s entourage had. With the way they acted, it was like the castle belonged to them.

He first met her on his way to dinner, with Rodrik and Olyvar debating the merits of different battle horses on either side of him. While the squire favored a destrier, the lordling made a case for some other type of warhorse, though Robb couldn’t be bothered to join in the debate.

A horse was a horse as far as he was concerned, and he had a tendency to get attached to them regardless of any skills seasoned horseriders looked for when purchasing their steeds for battle.

Smirking as she passed him in the hall, Arianne’s black hair swung behind her with each step she took, and her skirts seemed to flow underneath her as if they were flames licking at the ground beneath her. Though he had never seen a viper before, he wagered that it would probably move as the princess did. 

“King Stark,” she acknowledged with a nod of her head though she didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries.

She strode forward with intention as if he was dirt on the ground and she was the highborn who had the misfortune of stepping in it. She put on airs, that was for certain, acting like she had an audience cheering her on for her every move. He barely had time to stumble over a response when she rounded the corner confidently, two armored men following closely behind her.

“_That’s_ the princess of Dorne?” Rodrik’s voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t already have a girl of his own waiting for him to come back from the war so they could be wed. From what Robb knew of the betrothal, theirs was a love match. “She’s a bloody vision.”

“Easy now,” Robb cautioned his friend with a rough clap to his shoulder, jesting with him lightly though he knew good and well where his loyalties were. Forresters were unfailingly loyal, even in the worst of circumstances. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of switching sides.”

“Now that you mention it…” Rodrik started with a wry look before the trio dissolved into laughter, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the hallway.

* * *

He had nicked some miniature sponge cakes from the kitchens, much like he and his siblings used to do as young children, though it didn’t quite hold the same excitement for him now that it did then without the everpresent threat of getting caught. They were too stale for him to fully enjoy and so he found himself tossing them into the air for Grey Wind, whooping each time the direwolf caught one in his mouth with a satisfying chomp.

Was it pitiful that this was the only way he could manage to amuse himself?

As he tossed the fifth cake into Grey Wind’s mouth, he heard a throat clear behind him.

Robb stiffened, a little embarrassed to be caught mucking around. If it was one of his companions, they would likely just mock him for a couple hours and be done with it, but he doubted that Tyrion Lannister would let him live it down if he happened to be the one who intruded upon Robb. He'd likely have to bribe the man for his silence unless he wanted half a dozen bards singing songs of the Sponge King from the North.

He turned around sheepishly and felt a flush creep at the back of his neck at the sight of Daenerys standing before him, merriment coloring her features. Despite the entertainment she was taking at Robb’s expense, she stepped forward hesitantly. Her eyes were locked on Grey Wind munching on his prize as if fascinated by the sight of a wolf that large.

She hadn't displayed such hesitance when she first met him in the throne room, though Robb supposed she might have been putting on a brave face for him as he had when one of her dragons swooped over him as if it meant to pluck him from the ground on his way up to the castle.

“Are you afraid?” He teased her, grinning now that the power dynamic had shifted somewhat.

Daenerys shot him an unimpressed look and as if motivated purely by spite and a determination to prove him wrong, she marched forward and knelt on the ground beside the direwolf. She didn't seem to know what to do then, likely never having even interacted with a dog during her time at Essos. She must have seen a hound of some breed before, right?

For a woman who rode dragons as if she had no fear that the slightest jostle could throw her hundreds of feet to the ground, she seemed to be taking her sweet time in approaching a mere wolf, her fingers flexing at her side as if she was deciding on whether or not to chance touching him.

“Go ahead,” he said, addressing Grey Wind more than Daenerys, and the wolf leaned over the slightest bit to sniff at the Dragon Queen’s face. He had never misbehaved in a dangerous sense before, so Robb didn't see the harm in his wolf familiarizing himself with her scent. He only acted in the face of certain danger, and Daenerys had made herself more vulnerable than ever by even approaching the wolf in the first place. If that wasn't trust, he wasn't sure what was.

She inhaled sharply at the proximity that they shared, closing her eyes briefly when Grey Wind’s wet nose brushed across her cheek.

Robb crouched beside her then in an act that he hoped would bring her some comfort that he wouldn’t let his furry friend make a meal of her. He repressed the urge to reach out to calm her with his touch, instead letting their shoulders brush in a way that was almost excruciating to feel, not that she took notice of his turmoil. She likely didn't know how deeply every look they shared seemed to cut him.

She shot him a grateful look when Grey Wind all but ignored her in favor of practically mauling Robb with excitement.

On the battlefield, the direwolf was as deadly as they came, but off it he still acted like the pup Robb found at the clearing as a boy of sixteen. He couldn’t help but laugh aloud as he fell back into the sand, pieces of it getting caught in between his hair and into his tunic, his direwolf slurping at his face as if he hadn’t been paid proper attention in years, the massive liar. He was spoiled off all the attention Robb had given him but had the gall to pretend he had been neglected.

When Robb glanced at Daenerys in between wheezes of surprised laughter, Grey Wind still nipping at his face like a true fiend, practically coating his face with slobber. Though the saliva probably made for a rather unattractive sight, he found that he didn’t mind it as soon as he caught her eye.

They were alight with amusement, the corners of her lips upturned as if the action had absolutely endeared him to her. She held his gaze as if daring him to break it himself, something palpable sparking between them, something that he couldn't write off as imagined or a product of his own wishful thinking. He felt tethered to her, unable to look away even if he wanted to. She could thaw through his heart with naught but a smile, which was equally torturous as it was relieving. 

In a strange sense, he felt a kinship to her and her dragons; everyone seemed to fear Grey Wind to some extent -even his own mother- but him.

Fire-breathing dragons likely had a disposition that only a mother could love.

There was something else in her expression though, an unmistakable affection that swirled around the blues and violets of her eyes; she looked at him as if he alone had commanded the sun to rise in the morn and set in the afternoon. Like he could mean something to her.

Once he pushed himself back up, his direwolf ran towards the sea like the little idiot he was, and whatever Robb thought he saw in her eyes was long gone.

* * *

“You’ve always followed her then?” Robb asked, looking out over the ramparts as he spoke. He was awaiting entry into the tower so that they could get whatever meeting Tyrion had conceived for them out of the way. Missandei delivered the formal missive to him herself, and though his second week was coming to an end, he still felt as though he had just arrived here. Hot anxiety burst inside of him at the thought of returning to Riverrun empty-handed and being forced to tell his men that he had wasted their time and resources in entertaining an alliance that would never come to fruition. Worse yet, that he had made an enemy.

“Only since Astapor, Your Grace,” she responded courteously, offering Robb the smallest of smiles as she looked out at the setting sun. It seemed that there was something on her mind, but she didn’t seem to be the type of person to voice it aloud to a stranger. In a strange sense, she reminded him of his eldest sister. “Though I suppose that was quite some time ago now. I don’t know where I would be without her.”

Her love for her queen didn’t seem to ring false, but he had to wonder what Daenerys could have possibly done to inspire such loyalty among so many non-Westerosi. It couldn’t be her name, and she didn’t seem to have bought their services based on what he had found out from her and her servants. They spoke about her as if she was a goddess come to life rather than a mortal queen that they hoped to instill on a throne… perhaps it was just the dragons.

She turned to him with a knowing look on her face as if he had voiced his train of thought aloud. “All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. It may be difficult for an outsider to understand, but she is the queen we chose. I would choose none other than Daenerys Stormborn until the end of my days.”

“Why?” He couldn’t help but ask the question that had been weighing on him since the first night that Daenerys truly felt like a friend to him rather than a grudging ally-to-be. Mayhaps if he knew what drew so many men and women to the queen, he would be able to make sense of his own pull towards her.

“Those who were with her from the beginning saw firsthand her journey as their Khaleesi. Everyone expected her to crumble with Khal Drogo’s death,” Missandei spoke slowly as if she was an oracle telling a legend from the storybooks. “Instead she rose from his funeral pyre, unburnt, with three dragons at her side. Those who followed her saw her for her strength and passion, and they were willing to die in her service simply because of their love for her. It was unconditional. Many died for her, starved for her... they saw her at her weakest and they saw her at her most powerful, as have I.”

“She took Qarth for its wealth and liberated Astapor for justice. She could have ordered the Unsullied to follow her as their new master, as was her right, but she cast their whip aside and offered them a choice. She offered us all a choice,” Missandei paused. “No one had ever done that for any of us before, least of all someone so magical as Queen Daenerys. Dragons were revived simply because she willed them to be. We were free simply because she willed us to be.”

“So you think her to be some sort of god?” Robb frowned, wondering if zealotry was the true reason for why she had gained such traction as a leader. It wouldn’t come as a surprise after all he had heard about Stannis Baratheon’s red woman and all the horror she caused. What good had the dark arts served him when Daenerys and her dragons came after him? The blood relation they supposedly shared was so minuscule that it could hardly be considered kinslaying, though Robb had to wonder how long a siege could have possibly taken with the skewed odds of the battle. It likely took less than a day's time.

He supposed it didn't matter anymore seeing that Stannis Baratheon was dead now. 

“Some think of her as a prophet,” Missandei admitted as if it was a subject she would rather not speak about. “Others see her as a savior, as a mother, an idol. Her rule of Meereen was… tenuous,” Robb recalled Daenerys saying something similarly vague to him the first night that they supped together, something about harpies with golden masks staging an assassination attempt on her. She had enthusiastically confided in him her plans to cultivate ties with the two regions, and to break the wheel of rule in order to bring prosperity and peace to all.

It was a respectable dream, though Robb couldn’t be sure how realistic it was.

“But our support for her has never wavered,” she continued with a proud smile. “We follow her out of the love we bear her, and the Dothraki follow her for her strength. I’m sure that it isn’t much different for the Westerosi when the time comes to choose kings, is it, Your Grace?”

Robb opened his mouth to respond when the door burst open, Tyrion Lannister standing at the entrance expectantly.

“The King in the North!” He announced jovially as if he had been drinking rather than discussing diplomacy in the room. “Whenever you’re ready.”

* * *

A doctrine listing Daenerys Targaryen’s terms was placed in front of him as soon as he sat at the table in Tyrion’s quarters. There was a slight draft in the room but otherwise wasn’t the worst place to be; after years on end from one tent to another, luxury was hardly his greatest concern.

He braced himself for what was to come as he struggled not to squirm in the uncomfortable wooden seat that creaked underneath his weight. He loathed politics and as fond as he had grown of Daenerys, he would not betray the North for her. He had proclaimed that they would be an independent kingdom to all his bannermen and in doing so, had taken on the duties that came with leading them into battle and keeping them fighting for him there for nearly five years.

His passing fancies would not influence his decision.

Robb recalled his sister’s sad voice chiming in his ear, just wanting to see him smile for true- _what would make you happy, Robb?_

Even with her queenly front on, his heart lurched at the twinkle in Daenerys’ eyes. Her smile tormented him in his dreams, in his mind, and in his heart simultaneously. He wanted nothing but to make her smile, though he couldn’t admit such a thing aloud on account of his station.

It was madness, to feel such passion for a woman he had known for scarce but half a moon, but preventing it seemed impossible now.

He had never felt so close to anyone as he did when Daenerys would lock eyes with him in meetings and meals alike, offering him a humorous little smile as if she was as tired of all of the pomp and circumstance as he was. Deep within their souls, it felt like they were one in the same.

Tyrion had already begun speaking by the time he had a mind to pay attention to the conversation. “-the terms of which are in your favor, though for the sake of transparency, I have to warn you-”

Gods, this was just a massive waste of time, wasn’t it?

He cut Tyrion off abruptly in an effort to just save them the trouble of drawing out this conversation any longer than it had to be. “I won’t bend the knee.”

Daenerys leaned back in her chair, lips pursed, though she didn’t seem half as surprised as her Hand of the Queen did. Tyrion’s eyebrows shot upwards as if he thought Robb was the stupidest man on the planet, and perhaps he was— but he would not bend unless there was no other option.

“Of course not,” she replied dryly, sounding more than just a bit put out. The sound of what almost resembled bitterness from her lips was entirely unfamiliar to his ears. “I’ll admit, Lord Tyrion, you may have had a point about Northern men and their pride. Perhaps I gave him too much credit.”

He reeled at her words, a bit indignant at the dismissal of his position as a matter of pride. Surely she knew him better than that, didn’t she?

Did she truly think this was a matter of his _pride_? That he was refraining from swearing himself to her as a matter of stubbornness and not for the country rallying behind him? 

“He’s just like his father in that regard, I’m afraid,” Tyrion Lannister’s eyes danced with mirth but he had the decency not to smirk openly at him, though that did little to stop Robb’s temper from flaring. “All honor and no sense of self-preservation. Or sense, for that matter.”

Grey Worm scoffed from his spot as the pair’s only guard for the evening, though he had no way of understanding the meaning of the dig at Robb's late father. Not when ‘Eddard Stark’ was a name that seemed to be all but forgotten in the war for the Iron Throne.

Who was he to make light of a man he had never known?

“Mind your tongue, Lannister,” Robb snarled, so low that it was a wonder that he could even hear him at all. Tyrion blinked, opening his mouth to respond but thinking better of it. The Hand looked to his queen, who folded her hands in front of her on the table, looking at Robb as if she hadn’t spent the better part of the past two weeks attempting to get closer to him. As if she hadn't spent days on end opening her heart to him and encouraging him to do the same.

“You will address my Hand with respect, King Stark,” Daenerys snapped at him, her gaze detached in a way completely foreign to how she had been looking at him just moments prior. Had he done something to anger her? What prompted her sudden hostility toward him? 

“It’s King Stark now?” Robb bit back venomously without thinking it all the way through and caught himself just as the last word left his mouth. Daenerys arched a brow while Tyrion cocked his head with confusion, eyes flicking between the pair of them with skepticism, as if he had figured out the depth of Robb’s fondness for her. As if he didn’t know it for himself. “What is it that your Hand meant then, _Queen_ _Targaryen_? Surely he wasn’t referring to my late father earlier?”

“I meant no disrespect,” Tyrion responded diplomatically, dodging the consequences of making such an insult with all the tact of a garden snake lurking through the grass. Was it all just a grand joke to him? “My apologies if it came off the wrong way.”

“As it still stands, we need to come to an understanding,” Daenerys shifted the subject back to their alliance artfully, her coldness ever-present for reasons he couldn't begin to understand. “I would have you bend the knee, and you still refuse to do so. I am no Joffrey Baratheon, Your Grace, but I cannot allow the Seven Kingdoms to dissolve. You say that you want peace for the realm as much as I do. What it is that prevents you from swearing yourself to me, if not your pride?”

“Over my stay here, I’ve come to respect you as a leader in your own right,” he phrased himself as carefully as he could, not wanting anything to get misconstrued in his denial of her request. “I would gladly support your claim to the Iron Throne, Your Grace, but I cannot subject the North to another Southron overlord.”

“The North chose me as your people have chosen you,” Robb asserted, his voice as impassioned as it had been the night that the Lannister representative had come to hear his terms of peace, back when the war had first begun. He hadn't been fighting for five years to sacrifice the North's integrity now. “I ask that you respect that choice to remain as an independent kingdom. Winter will come soon, and you will need the North’s support if you hope to survive it. We remember, Your Grace” 

“Ah, the famous words,” Tyrion clicked his tongue impishly. “The North remembers.”

“Aye,” Robb tried not to let his temper get the better of him, no matter how irritating his company happened to be. Daenerys sighed, deeply disappointed in the turn the conversation had taken. She made a face as if she couldn’t care less about secondary house words. It was unsurprising, considering she had never lived through a winter before. She didn't know the meaning behind the words, even at a surface level. “We do.”

“Then surely they remember what happened the last time a Targaryen brought dragons northward,” Tyrion bit back with the same argument Daenerys had presented Robb with days ago, though he seemed more pleading now that he was actually saying the words out loud. “I am begging you to reconsider, Your Grace. Bend the knee and unite the Seven Kingdoms once more, under a good and just queen. You said that all you wanted for Westeros was a worthy leader. She is sitting before you, right now. Just bend the knee, Your Grace, and be done with it.”

If Robb did it, surely Theon would follow. Being a warden would be a blow to his pride for certain, but that wasn’t why he was so staunchly refusing to entertain the idea. The North was not a token to be passed around or bartered with. It was what his men and women had bled for, for years on end.

They would never accept a Southroner’s rule, least of all a Targaryen after what her father and brother had done to their liege lord's family. He couldn’t just hand his home over to another, even if they were the worthiest ruler there was; it was about more than just him, and Daenerys Targaryen, and Tyrion Lannister, and any lord or lady who meant to subjugate the North.

It was about the smallfolk and the farmers, and the highborn maids waiting for their fathers to return from the war, and the lowborn girls who tended their family's fields and farms in their husbands' absences, and the youth who chased each other through the winter town whenever it snowed, and the elders telling tales of the winters past. They were the very heart of the North. 

As he had thought many a time since arriving at Dragonstone, the North was not his to give.

Steeling his gaze, Robb pushed the unsigned doctrine to the other side of the table. “I cannot.”

* * *

“Your Grace,” Robb called out as soon as he crossed the threshold into the dim stone hall, looking around him frantically in search of Daenerys before she could disappear back into her chambers. He caught sight of her fine silver hair rounding the corner, three of her companions halting at the sound of his voice.

They stared at him with owlish eyes as if they had no clue whether to address or ignore him now that he was taking some initiative. 

Daenerys sighed, long and deep, as if the mere thought of entertaining a conversation with him was exhausting. He felt put out at the clear picture of annoyance on her face, unsure as to how to proceed now that he had her attention, however impatient she seemed about it. “What is it?”

Robb’s mouth suddenly felt dry, as if every word he had ever spoken before in his life was a foreign tongue to him now. She raised an expectant brow, making no move to cross the distance between them and all her maids flanking her with all the devotion of trained guards.

“If I’ve done something to offend you-” He started uncertainly, voice embarrassingly hoarse from disuse when he spoke.

“You haven’t.” Her response was as curt as it was piercing, her eyes revealing nothing about how she felt. She remained, however, where she could have simply spun on her feet and left. If she truly wanted nothing to do with him, there was nothing stopping her from leaving him to his thoughts.

He strode forward, paying the small gasp Irri let out no mind when he faced Daenerys Targaryen, not a king before a rival queen, but a man before someone he cared for dearly, no matter how ill-advised his infatuation with her was. He couldn't help his feelings any more than she could help her apparent anger with him.

“I bid you to let me know if I have, Your Grace.” He paused the words just on the tip of his tongue, a bit too bold and yet, not enough to convey just how ardently he felt. “My heart would die to lose your confidence now.”

Daenerys’ jaw slackened somewhat at his turn of phrase, though she maintained her cool façade otherwise, stepping forward to match his intensity. Were they still playing this game of challenges and power?

Her eyes flitted down to his lips and back up, so quickly that he wasn’t entirely sure that it had happened at all.

“You presume too much,” she murmured, so close that he could see the very flecks of purple dancing in her eyes. The corners of her lips tilted upward for a moment —a moment too long and too short, all at once— before she backed away, turning away from him resolutely. “Your Grace.”

She didn’t look back at him as she left.

* * *

Midway through his nineteenth day at Dragonstone, another war council was called, seemingly of the utmost importance. He had been sparring with Olyvar on the beach when Rakharo approached him with a grim expression on his face and indifference in his tone. _Khaleesi urges you to come_, he had grunted as if Robb was the last person that he wanted to waste his time speaking to. It was disappointing, considering Robb's awe at the man's weaponry and build.

He appraised the short-haired man with interest, smirking at the sight of his crescent-shaped weapon -the history books _had_ gotten something right, after all- trying to get a sense of the man’s outfit. Was he not cold in his rags, likely made from leathers and the flimsiest wool he had ever seen in his life?

Perhaps if they managed to form an alliance through all of this, he could use furs as a bartering tool; winter was coming, after all, and the cold would come with it.

When Robb’s companions filed into the room behind him, the meeting was already underway, though the Princess of Dorne was noticeably absent. Unlike his comrades who began speculating why she might not be there amongst themselves, Robb dismissed their conspiracies immediately. Arianne Martell was the kind of woman who relished in taking her sweet time to get from one location to the next, reveling in keeping people waiting.

Varys was standing at the forefront of the room —because of course he was— with Daenerys speaking with her audience in an urgent tone.

She was at the head of the table clad in her queenly regalia, and both of her hands rested on the cool stone of the painted war map as if she couldn’t bear the stress of whatever situation was being spoken about.

The room was more scattered than it had been in the meetings prior to this, a few gaps on the sidelines where some of her advisors and allies had failed to make an entrance yet. Most of Arianne Martell’s entourage was present, though her Kingsguard companion and one of the Sand Snakes had yet to make an appearance; all the queen’s counselors were there, though some had broken off into their own conversations as if the woman they served wasn’t addressing the room.

Although Daenerys hadn’t sent for him since their failed negotiations a few days prior, he longed to reach out to her and see what it was that was ailing her so dearly. If it was something that he did on the day they spent at the beach, he would prefer to know it rather than play at her mind games.

“My Lord,” Varys called as if Robb’s presence was all that he was waiting for, calling him by the wrong title undoubtedly to curry favor with his queen. “It’s good to see you here. There have been rather… grievous tidings from the west that would benefit from your expertise.”

Robb furrowed his brows, mind immediately jumping to the worst things that could have happened. Was Edmure dead? Riverrun ambushed in the night? More of the west flayed to the bone by Roose Bolton's rabid army? Each thought made him dread whatever was about to be said. “What is it?”

“We were discussing Roose Bolton’s forces in the West,” Daenerys filled in the blanks after a quick glance at her Hand, who was off to the side arguing in hushed whispers with Ser Barristan as if it were a matter of life or death. “They’ve become a threat to the stability of the realm.”

“You don’t say,” Robb responded flatly, his anger at being shunned manifesting in sarcasm. It was all he had been saying for the past few weeks but _now_ it mattered. _Now_ it was a threat to the stability of the realm.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him but continued speaking nonetheless, her tone as unfazed as it was before his commentary. “They’ve been pillaging the Westerlands and flaying the smallfolk despite their presumed alliance with the Lannisters, according to Lord Varys’ reports. If they're truly acting without reason, it's well past time that we reevaluate our approach to dealing with them. We cannot risk the possibility of underestimating an enemy.”

“I’m of the mind that we should deal with them swiftly,” Tyrion gave his input as if he had been listening raptly the entire time, cutting Barristan Selmy off mid-sentence. “We root them out and dispose of them before they prove to be a problem. It will undoubtedly sway the westermen to your cause, especially with my father’s inaction. They’ve all but abandoned the west in favor of holding the capital, my queen. They're as vulnerable as ever.”

“Why would Tywin Lannister allow his own ally to ravage his land?” Ser Barristan cut in, grinding his teeth in an indication that this was what the root of his quarrel with Tyrion was about. “Think about it, Your Grace. They want to turn our attention to the west so that they can ambush us. It's a tactic as old as time. They’ll catch us by surprise and deplete our forces before we can take the capital.”

“Selmy is right,” Grey Worm agreed with the man gruffly. “It’s a trap for certain, Queen Daenerys.”

“We haven’t heard from the capital in moons on end, Your Grace,” Tyrion murmured as if speaking just to Daenerys, whose impassive expression gave nothing away as to which direction she was leaning toward. “My father’s influence is weak. This isn’t a plot, I’m sure of it. This is our chance to overwhelm his forces and take the Westerlands back. They won't have any choice but to support your claim once you've freed them from the monsters occupying their land.”

“Your father is notorious for his tactical brilliance-” Ser Barristan cut in, bewildered by Tyrion’s dismissal of the very thought that Tywin Lannister was just biding his time in King’s Landing. Even Robb had to grant that it seemed an unlikely option.

“My father has lost every battle against a man of twenty and two,” Tyrion gestured to Robb as if he were nothing but a pawn in a discussion that would involve his own men if Roose Bolton managed to cross the border into the Riverlands. “His mind isn’t what it once was. This is an opportunity, my queen.”

“Your Grace,” the knight pled with Daenerys. “Do not underestimate him. It is a sure way to ensure that we lose footing in the battles to come. We cannot risk it.”

Tyrion met his eyes across the table. Robb nodded in kind, seemingly the only person here save for the Dornish who thought that putting the madmen westward down was a good idea. Though it might come at a cost to Daenerys if treachery was involved, it would save his own men and the rivermen from the slaughter that would ensue if the Boltons attempted a siege of Riverrun. Nevertheless, the Boltons were unstable— leaving them alive would only greaten the risk of them destroying Westeros.

If she hoped for the Riverlords to swear fealty to her at the end of this, they were as much her problem as they were his. 

Tyrion licked his lips, setting his shoulders back as if knowing that he had support emboldened him somewhat. He didn’t get the chance to speak however, as Jorah Mormont cut in next, only having eyes for Daenerys as per usual. “What do you mean to do, Khaleesi?”

She didn’t look up from the war table when she shook her head. “Nothing.”

He felt Dacey flinch behind him where the rest of his men seemed to stiffen in their spots. Robb’s heart dropped to the very bottom of his stomach at the adamant look on her face that indicated that her decision was made. The Sand Snakes were sneaking sour looks at each other, clearly unhappy with the suggestion as well. The only ones who seemed pleased were her own advisors, all of whom were probably just glad that there was nothing at risk for them without an attack.

What was the point of him coming here if all it did was yield an unsuccessful series of talks, and leave his army defenseless? The realm would bleed if they all just left the Bolton army to their own devices, all because no one cared enough for the enemy’s bannermen to intervene.

His men would be skinned to the bone if he spent any more time here.

“We will deal with the Boltons once I have taken King’s Landing,” Daenerys swore, her oath rather meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Thousands would be dead by the time Joffrey was rotting in a grave somewhere. “Ser Barristan is right. I will not endanger my men for a plot to lure me away from King’s Landing. I assure you that they will not escape justice for the wrongs that they have caused, my lords, my ladies, but we cannot lose sight of what is most important.”

Tyrion was gaping at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Your Grace—”

“This meeting is adjourned,” Daenerys fixed him with a glare as if to warn him not to undermine her in front of a council of people, but allowed for some room to compromise. “We will reconvene on the morrow. My decision is not final yet, so rest assured, my lord, you will be heard.”

Before ten seconds had passed, men and women were crossing the room to exit, many of them debating the situation amongst themselves as if their opinions would make a difference at all. Daenerys was stubborn enough that Robb was half certain that she wouldn't change her mind no matter what was said. Tyrion was the last to leave the room, though Robb remained rooted in his spot, hoping to get a moment along with Daenerys to get a sense for where her head was in all of this.

Admittedly, he was upset.

This was his bannerman and his people who would come to harm, and Daenerys seemed to base her decision entirely on the potential ramifications it could take on her own army rather than the lives that would be lost every moment that they waited for the turncloaks to show up on their doorstep. The problem would only spiral out of control if it was left alone, and the smallfolk would suffer for it.

“Is there something you wanted?” Her voice broke the stiff silence from where she was busying herself with moving a single wooden piece around the board, hovering over the Goldroad as if she intended to put it down before she changed her mind and put it back to its previous spot.

She wasn’t even looking at him.

“You would truly let all those men die?” Robb asked, truly perplexed. The west meant little to him but even the thought of a mountain of lowborn corpses being left there was enough to make him want to take up his blade to protect them with his life. “He’ll reach the Riverlands before long. He already has my uncle and hundreds of my men. They’ll die if we don’t intervene, Daenerys. The Boltons will skin them to the bone and leave them to rot.”

How would it be any different from what she told him of the Great Masters of Meereen, tying people to crosses and torturing them until they were begging for the Stranger’s kiss? Only punishing the Boltons once it was convenient for her wouldn't make for any kind of justice, especially not when they could prevent it now.

This time, Daenerys matched his stare evenly. “It isn’t personal, Robb.”

Robb? It was only ‘King Stark’ a few days ago, and now she was calling him _Robb_?

He glanced back down at the map markers, his stomach coiling at the sight of all the flayed men advancing towards Riverrun. His mother’s family seat would be the first to fall if the Boltons managed to get there before his own forces did. Arya was still there. If she died for an alliance that he couldn’t even manage to secure, he didn’t think he could live with himself. He would rather die than see his sister hurt, especially not if it was because of him that she perished.

The smallfolk in the Westerlands were neither of their responsibilities on paper, but he couldn’t abide by the thought that their negligence could cause them further suffering.

And at the hand of a Lannister puppet, no less.

If he were there, he would have sent for Theon’s fleet and met them on the battlefield as soon as they began flaying people, no matter who those people belonged to. Tywin Lannister’s smallfolk were worth no less than the smallfolk in the Riverlands, the North, or Dorne for all he cared.

After Daenerys had shaped so many of her strategies around saving the smallfolk in the capital, how could she just allow a mutual enemy of theirs to commit such a massacre when their combined forces could defeat them?

“How is it not personal?” Robb questioned, a newfound sense of urgency pulsing through him. He had been _here_ instead of Riverrun, instead of preparing his men for an attack, and it might all be worth nothing but flayed corpses and broken promises. It was not just about him, but about the innocents crushed under the very wheel Dany had spoken to him about breaking. “Daenerys, please.”

Her eyes looked unspeakably sad, though they were connected for a moment that seemed to suspend in the air around them before she turned from him again, breaking the spell that seemed to bind him to her. He still wouldn’t leave these chambers, not even if she commanded it of him.

If they joined forces to defeat the Boltons... and then joined forces once more to take the the capital for her... 

“I cannot.” Her voice was hard and unfeeling as if she truly was the Dragon Queen once more and not the woman he had come to know; it was a drastic change from the laughing girl he cared for with wine-stained lips and sparkling eyes. It was as if she didn’t care about him at all, like their endless conversations about life and its wonders were nothing. Like he was nothing to her.

Had he been played for a fool?

Negotiations aside, he wasn’t sure what he had done to prompt such coldness.

“Why?” Robb probed, his heart burning in his chest. It ached as though she had stabbed him herself and twisted the dagger to ensure that it hurt. It seemed that the ice behind her words was meant more for Robb than simply for the King in the North

“If my men are slaughtered fighting your war, I’ll have no armies to take the Iron Throne with,” she stated matter-of-factly as if she wasn’t the reason for why he had left the Riverlands in the first place. Gods, perhaps he truly was as stupid as Tyrion Lannister seemed to think him. “Roose Bolton is _your_ bannerman and I am not beholden to deal with your men, just as you are not bound to protect mine. You must understand that what you’re asking of me is unreasonable.”

“He _was_ my bannerman,” Robb corrected, voice rising as he spoke. He was Tywin Lannister’s puppet now, and leaving him to his own devices would only ensure that the casualties would increase tenfold. “He’s torturing smallfolk, Daenerys. He isn’t killing my men nor is he killing yours, but we could stop him together. Isn’t this what we spoke about just nights earlier? About being a king and queen to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves? They’re innocents, not soldiers.”

At that, she seemed to swallow her words. Who was she if not a champion for those who could not protect themselves? They couldn’t just sit back and allow for a massacre when it was in their power to stop it.

One attack -one _glimpse_ of her dragons and their combined forces- and the Boltons would be done for. The Lannisters would be done for.

“I cannot save everyone,” Daenerys reasoned with him though she sounded unconvinced of her own words. Perhaps he was chipping away at her, slowly but surely. “My counselors are right. I need to focus my energies first on taking the throne, and then on bringing peace to the kingdoms. If I spread my armies too thin, we’ll crumble.”

Desperation clawed at his throat. “We’ll help you take the throne, Daenerys, I swear it.”

She gave him a pitying look as she shook her head. “You haven't bent the knee.”

“Then let me be your ally,” Robb insisted, trying to get as close to a compromise as he could manage. He took a hesitant step toward her, the room barely lit at all save for the torches that burned on the chamber walls. Her face was half-illuminated by the fire, half cloaked in darkness and yet, her eyes crackled with defiance that burned twice as bright as any flame. “We'll work together as a king and a queen, and we'll rid the realm of Joffrey, _together_. The Tyrells will be nothing compared to our combined forces- your Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Martells, the Northerners, the Rivermen, the ironborn. We would win the war for you if you wished it, as long as you helped us now where we need it most."

Daenerys lifted her chin, melancholy and longing mingling as one in her gaze. “I thought this was about the smallfolk in the Westerlands. Not about the future it holds for your forces in the Riverlands.”

Robb’s breathing deepened. “My sister’s at Riverrun. If we fight them alone, I could die and she...” he swallowed. “The things they’ve done to their prisoners are unspeakable.”

”So you want me to risk my neck to fight alongside you, not for you?” Daenerys affirmed, sounding unconvinced that such a plan would benefit her in any way.

Perhaps he would need to clarify further.

”You need a fleet,” Robb started, recalling the scuffle over getting the rest of her soldiers to Westeros. “My goodbrother has the most impressive one Westeros has to offer. If you mean to stage a siege, you need more ships than what you have. The Lannisters outnumber you four to one. If you don’t mean to burn their city to the ground, you stand as much a chance of losing to them as you do winning. If you have us backing you, if you have us take the capital in your name, you’ll even the odds and ensure your men are more safe. We don’t need to bend the knee to fight for you, Daenerys. Let us fight _together_.”

She paused, genuinely seeming to think it through for a moment. It wasn’t a bad deal; they fight for her and she fights for them, and casualties would be minimized l. Daenerys pursed her lips. “I would be a fool to agree to such terms.”

The dam of self-control broke within Robb then, allowing for a flood of unresolved, half-written thoughts to break loose. Was she so obsessed with that horrid iron chair of hers that she would allow for thousands to die in order to get it? She had never even been to the North. How could it be worth the trouble when he knew for a fact that she would prefer to languish in the South even if the North was hers?

Was a crown all she cared about?

“You would let them all die, then? The smallfolk, the men, the women, the children?” He demanded, anger creeping into his tone as he tried to make sense of what was going through her head. Her face revealed nothing, because it _never_ did, and all he could even begin to want from her was an explanation. “How could you just…" Robb pled with her, unable to make peace with leaving the westermen to die. The Riverlands would be wrecked once more before long, and then the Boltons would inflict their reign of terror upon the crownlands. This wasn't just one person's problem. "It’s our duty to help them, Daenerys. Please.”

“You’ve never been a prisoner here,” Daenerys responded callously as if they hadn’t spent evening after evening baring their souls to one another. “Return home if that’s what you wish.”

“Return to die, you mean.” He corrected flatly, his nostrils flaring as the lump in his throat expanded to twice its size. She didn’t care if he lived or died by the sound of it, and he had just been another idiot to think that he meant more to a woman than he truly did; like Florian the Fool from Sansa’s favorite story, ever a gullible idiot where his lover was concerned, even if his devotion killed him.

_All men are fools_, he thought hatefully as Daenerys straightened before him, a queen facing the idiot who had fallen for her. _And all men are knights_.

She said nothing.

“Have we become enemies then?” Robb continued, his voice raw and the pieces of his shattered heart jagged as if made from tempered glass.

To his fury, Daenerys averted her gaze then, staring at the stonework on the walls as if it was a masterpiece and not just charred rubble.

Why wouldn’t she just _look_ at him?

“Do you hate me so much, Daenerys, that you would allow me to walk into certain death despite this alliance being to our mutual benefit-”

“What would you have me do?” Daenerys spun on her feet and shouted in turn, her carefully crafted mask of indifference cracking into fragments. Her eyes blazed where they once froze over, and Robb’s own jaw slackened at the sight of her wrath. “Fall right into their trap and kill my own men in the process? To agree to an alliance where I have no power over you? That I would trust that you would uphold an agreement to fight beside me with no way to ensure accountability? I have no choice!”

“We don’t know that it’s a trap,” Robb rationalized, trying to summon up any of Tyrion’s eloquence when he spoke on the issue, however unsuccessful it was. “And I would not break a promise to you.”

Daenerys smiled at him as if he truly was the fool from his little sister’s stories. “Don’t we?”

Robb drew in a haggard breath. “I would fight for you if you did this, with every breath I draw. I would fight for you as you would fight for me, as your ally, as your friend, as your-” he broke the word off before he could utter it like the dimwit he now knew himself to be, unable to take a rejection now. He didn't think he would be able to hold his heart together if she broke it now, and gods, how couldn't she have realized by now that he cared for her more than he should?

“Then bend the knee,” she pled with him, striding forward as if a closer proximity would help her chances of getting him to yield, as if he was so weak-willed as the other men in her service. He would think the action manipulative if she wasn’t on the brink of tears herself. It was simply... desperate. “Please.”

He shook his head immediately, unable to even consider it. “No. I cannot.”

“You can but you choose not to,” Daenerys accused him angrily, her voice cracking as she jabbed a finger forward, not quite managing to touch him but getting close enough that it caused something else to snap within him. She convinced herself to think that it was his choice to do this; she would believe anything but the truth. “It’s your choice, Robb.”

There it was again. His name on her lips, though it was marked with her fury.

“What do you know of my choices?” He advanced on her as Grey Wind did in the heat of battle. “What do you know of my heart? I haven’t chosen _anything_ for myself since this damned war started! It’s all duty and death, and I didn’t ask for any of it. You know nothing of what I’ve had to do for my kingdom, for my sisters, and my father. I don’t have a choice. I’ve never had a choice.”

Daenerys squared her jaw. “You can choose to do the right thing-”

“There is no right thing!” Robb bellowed, eyes leaking with tears that he hadn’t realized he’d begun to shed. “I made a promise to my people and you would see me suffer for it. You would see me _die_ for having the nerve not to bow before you. An alliance would only mean that we were equals, not that you would be fighting my war. I should not have to be subjugated to you for you to put your faith in me.”

“You couldn’t possibly understand the position I’m in,” Daenerys countered, only a step away from him, her brows furrowed and chest heaving with every frenzied breath she drew. Did she truly think that? Her brows were drawn together with concentration as she met his stare evenly with her own. It was as if her eyes were a direct gateway to her soul, filled to the brim with the uncertainty and fear that came with the burden of being a queen. Choosing who lived and who died was a curse that came with wearing a crown, and now it could tear their kingdoms apart with just a command.

“I’m the only one who can,” Robb’s voice broke, both of them twisted, agonized reflections of one another.

What creatures had power and rule turned them into?

Even the most gallant of kings and queens had a pile of corpses propping up their throne; there would never be a right choice, or a pure climb to influence. He would trade his crown for a lifetime in the countryside without a second thought, if it didn’t mean that he would be abandoning a country of people who put their very livelihood in his hands. There was only wrong and less wrong when it came to being a king or queen, and inaction was as much a choice as diving headfirst into battle. There was no happiness for a king; no happiness, no peace, no solace...

Her eyes dipped to his lips and for a moment, everything was still.

His heart was mangled, beaten, burnt, but it still managed to beat if only for her to look at him a little longer.

Before he could do so much as gather the pieces of his shattered heart, her lips were on his, rough and desperate, and unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Her hands grabbed his face, scratching at his cheeks with all the restraint of a wild animal, and she licked into his mouth as if it had been all she dreamt of doing since he first appeared before her, like she had been restraining herself from wanting him just as he had been from the moment they first met in the castle's throne room. His own hands clutched at her hips, unable to conceive that this wasn’t a dream.

She pushed up against him, yearning, angry, and impassioned. Her waist was soft to the touch and she smelled like the sweetest smelling flowers on the planet, beautiful and ethereal as if she were half goddess and half woman, come to earth specifically to drive him mad.

_We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t_.

It was the mantra that he repeated to himself as she whimpered into his mouth, but he couldn’t summon up the strength to say it aloud. He should have pushed her away— an honorable man would have done so and left the island without further delay, valuing his integrity over his desires.

For all that he had tried to uphold his duties, he had failed in this trial of restraint.

He gripped her tighter against him, all of his thoughts about his honor and responsibilities dissipating with the touch of her lips against his.

In this room, there was no one but the two of them; there were no arranged marriages, no wars that lasted years without end, no kingdoms or loyalties to tear them apart, no complications… there was no one in the world but them, Robb Stark and Daenerys Targaryen, together. 

He chased her lips the moment she paused to breathe, needing her touch to ground him to the earth beneath them. He craved her touch more than air itself, needing her, _wanting_ her. He had never felt like this in his life, not with any of the women he had known before Daenerys. One had only loved him for however long his coppers could buy her affections for, another loved him for the promise of a simple life together, one that he could never have led in the first place, and the last, his wife, wedded him out of mere duty with no love in either of their futures together.

None of it could even begin to compare to how he felt now, with hands clawing at his jerkin and honeyed lips pressing against his with an urgency that his body returned as if second nature to him. She was trying to get him naked. He assisted her in unfastening his own attire clumsily, the jacket flying open though she only just managed to get one sleeve off before he was backing her into the war table.

He would adore her even in death if the gods allowed it.

Robb couldn’t get a good look the clasps of her gown but couldn’t be bothered to try when she was pressed against him, her hand sliding from his face into his hair, tangling his curls carelessly as she perched herself on the corner of the table, dragging him to stand between her legs.

His wandering hands reached for her backside, squeezing at her arse as he pushed against her. He gasped into her lips when she rolled her hips against his hardness, the sensation of the fire she left on his body too hot for him to take. She made him _burn_. Their lips parted for the first time in what could have been five minutes or two hours as she fumbled to unlace his breeches in the desperation of their shared affections.

Eyeing the surface behind her, he reached over to wipe at the map markers of ships and war pieces —lions, stags, roses, wolves, trouts, dragons, none of them mattered now— so that the war table was clear enough for their use. What was a war compared to this woman’s love?

She scooted back, her battle strategies all but forgotten now as she hiked her dress up to her hips and discarding what Robb could only assume were her smallclothes to the ground, likely tearing them in the process of taking them off as she reached for him again. Every movement felt like time had been slowed for their benefit. His hands settled at her calves, rubbing and grasping for any skin he could find, her touch scalding him as if she were truly a dragon herself.

Before long, he followed her onto the table, praying to every god that it wouldn’t break under their combined weight. He couldn't handle it if they were separated for even a moment. Her nimble fingers freed him from the constraints of his breeches, yanking them down to his thighs fluidly before he was upon her again, hungry for more.

Her lips molded against his and her hands were in his hair, fingers kneading at his scalp as they moved against each other. He peppered hot kisses to her neck as she grasped at his cock with her hand, adjusting him so that he was right against her entrance. He longed to feel her heat, to feel himself inside of her, but languished at squandering his one chance to worship her as she deserved. He wanted her so _much _that he might die if she left him now.

He wanted to sob with relief at the feeling of himself sinking into her, his semi-bare chest pressed against her clothed one.

He searched for her lips as he got lost in her touch, their kiss searing as he began thrusting into her, a hand grazing her stomach on its way to palm at her breasts wantonly. She moaned into his ear while arching against him, her jaw slack as they established a sort of rhythm.

Her feet dug into his back as he rutted into her, her hands clawing so hard at his shoulders that she had surely drawn blood.

Dany's fingers scratched at him as she swiveled her hips forward, needing him as he needed her, understanding him as no one ever had before. 

He couldn’t think or feel anything other than her.

“More, Robb, more,” she chanted, and he pushed himself up above her so as to rub at her pearl furiously with his spare hand, trying to match the ministrations with his thrusts. She cried out at the sudden pressure, gripping harder at him as he fucked her on top of her war table.

The stone surface of table was cool underneath his palm, and the dips and curves in the map likely dug into Daenerys' back, but she didn't appear to mind it much as she tightened her legs around him. 

His hand quivered over her clit, speeding up in its motions so as to try to bring her to a peak. His thrusting slowed, his pacing growing more unpredictable as he distracted himself with pleasuring her. Daenerys nipped at his lips, her head lolling back as her expression contorted with delight.

The feeling was hot and slick, and then she was clenching around him, pulsating in a way he had never felt with a woman before.

He pushed deeper into her, harder, continuing for a moment or perhaps it was a lifetime, before he spilled his seed into her. It was harsh and messy, and far more uncomfortable than it would have been on a bed, but it was unlike anything he had ever allowed himself to feel in his life. 

Once he pulled his leaking member out of her, he wasn't sure what his next course of action was. Would she want him to leave? To pretend it hadn't happened at all? To hold her in his arms? To assure her that it was merely a product of tension built up between them rather than genuine affection on his part?

She locked eyes with him in the moments of silence afterward, the moments in which they realized what they had done, and what line they had crossed.

He was about to pull away when soft hands reached up to cradle his cheeks. Her touch was as tender as a lover's and he supposed that was what she now was to him. Her eyes seemed to glisten under the firelight, a wave of emotion washing through them as if she might care as much for him as he did for her.

All of his insecurities rose to the surface, bubbling and boiling within him as he waited to see how she would twist his heart next.

Robb looked down at her, raw and vulnerable, but she didn’t have any words for him. She leaned up to connect their lips in a kiss. This one wasn’t rough or angry or driven by some bizarre need to establish dominance, though; it was sweet and loving, and he couldn’t help but abandon all sense and reason to sink further into it.

What was one more sin to burden his guilty conscience with now?

* * *

He returned to his chambers alone, numb on his feet and his mind racing. There was no explaining what had just happened between him and Daenerys, nor was there any excusing it. The act of making love spoke for itself, didn't it?

He slept with her.

For years, he had upheld his father’s legacy; he bled for the North, fought for Father’s memory, and endeavored to ensure the safety of his wife, mother, and sisters. Now, he had all but spat on it. What would Roslin think if she was here, him with another woman’s perfume still clinging to his skin?

_She would understand_, Robb tried to talk himself down as he stirred under his covers, eventually kicking them off with frustration. He grew more restless when he couldn't even recall what she looked like aside from the generic features his mind conjured up for him. _She was forced into this marriage as much as I was_.

Though he hadn’t seen her in nearly half a year, she was still his wife. Would she scorn him if she knew what he had done? Would she curse the gods for binding her to an unfaithful man? How would he even be able to share her bed again, after all that had happened between him and Daenerys? Robb could scarcely even close his eyes without his new lover consuming his thoughts. He couldn’t see a future without her in it, no matter how ill-advised their dalliance was. Did she feel the same way that he did? Would it happen again, or were they just swept up in the moment?

He squirmed from one side of his bed to the other, unable to chase his anxious thoughts away now that they had decided on plaguing him. Gods, there was no going back now. Even if Daenerys decided that she never wanted to see Robb’s face again in her lifetime, he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else ever again; she was… everything, and more. How would he be able to share a bed with his wife again if his heart belonged to another?

For all that he had betrayed his vows to Roslin, he would not shame her by forcing her to lay with him ever again, not after what he had done. Their marriage would be unhappy, but at least it would not be built on lies. He would not betray his love in word or deed.

_I’ll speak to her when the war is over_, he decided though he couldn’t foresee the conversation going over very well. Perhaps she would want to return to the Twins or visit new countries that she hadn’t yet seen, or mayhaps she would want something else. _I’m getting ahead of myself_.

Mother would wring his neck, that much was certain. Seven hells, she would hate him for this, wouldn’t she?

After what Father had done when he brought Jon home from the war, practically announcing to the entire realm that he had betrayed his wife, that she for some reason, was not worth as much to him as whichever woman had birthed Jon… Robb hadn’t ever imagined that he would do such a thing himself.

How would he be able to live with himself?

Three short raps at his door sounded.

He shot up from where he was laying on the bed, hair twisting in different directions and beard in desperate need of a trimming. He didn’t waste any time in getting off the matress, not even bothering to pull a shirt on when he swung the door open, his heart chirping with anticipation at who it could be.

A part of him knew that only one person would visit him so late at night, but he didn't dare hope that it was her until he could see her with his own eyes. The hall was dark with not a soul to see his exchange with the late-night guest who had been unable to stay away from him for more than a few hours now that they had abandoned all protocol and sense just to be with one another. 

Daenerys stood barefoot before him, clad in only a white nightgown with her hair loose in a way that framed her face like a halo.

She was the most beautiful woman in the world, even without her elaborate braids and finery. Especially without them. She was not so otherworldly when stripped down to her shift, but rather retained a beauty that only he had the fortune of seeing. Despite his inner struggle over the choices he had made today, he couldn't help but want to gather her in his arms and hold her until time reached its end. How could any of what he felt for her be wrong? 

It was a risk for her to be walking around looking like this when anyone could stumble upon her.

He cracked the door open to let her in and before long, his knees were backed against the edge of the mattress once more, devotion on his lips as they lost themselves in one another.

* * *

“Maybe this was your plan all along,” Robb theorized as he nestled his head further into his feathered pillow, his chest still heaving with exhaustion as Daenerys curled at his side. She cocked her head at him with curiosity, an amused smirk already playing at her lips as if she knew precisely where this was headed. He pulled her to him swiftly to kiss her hair carelessly before continuing, unable to keep his hands off her. “Seduce me so you could trick me into doing your bidding.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, her pink lips popping open into an ‘o’ shape as he voiced his conspiracy theory aloud. The morning light streamed in from behind her as she tried to stifle a laugh, looking like a vision in the nude. She was soaked with sweat, though it did nothing but make her more breathtaking.

Would he think everything she did was beautiful? Probably.

Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she beamed down at him, swooping forward to place a featherlight kiss to his nose before settling back into his arms. Her hair brushed against his nose, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of her, and the feeling of being so close to her. It felt like a miracle, for her to care for him even a fraction as much as he cared for her. It would be a crime to deny himself this happiness after all he had been through already.

“_You_ asked to come here!” Daenerys pointed out, not quite managing to grumble as she intended.

He enjoyed seeing her like this, hair undone and carefree. He yearned to see her dancing blissfully in the wolfswood, laughing and singing like the nymphs in his favorite childhood songs. For the longest time, he had convinced himself that he would marry a woman given to him from the moon while Theon fancied he would follow in the Grey King's footsteps and take a mermaid for a wife. The woman in his bed exceeded everything he could have possibly conceived of in his youth.

In a better world, they could leave it all behind for his deepest fantasies of a life without responsibilities. In that life, Bran could be the king after him, and Robb could become like one of those wildlings Jon befriended at the wall, hunting his own game and traveling far and wide with his lover at his side. They could make a new life together and fill whatever home they fancied with a hundred screaming babes who would never have to worry about thrones or wars.

Gods, they had only made love a handful of times and he was already fantasizing about a future they could never have together. 

“And look at me now,” he murmured back at her ardently, reaching forward to skim his thumb along her cheekbone. “Completely at your mercy.”

Her eyelashes fluttered as a breeze fanned over them. It smelled like the sea, all saltwater and brine. He could stay here forever if his duties would allow it. His smile dimmed as he drank her in, wondering how long this affair between them could possibly last. He would return to the North and she would take her position as the monarch in the South; maintaining such a relationship was only something that people did in storybooks and poems, but never in real life.

“Will you marry once you’ve taken the throne?” He asked, watching raptly as the wind took a few strands of her white hair in its embrace, blowing it around her as she let her eyes slide shut. Daenerys barely stirred, humming to herself as she cuddled closer to him, her arms winding around his bare torso thoughtlessly.

“If I need to,” she sighed after a few moments of quiet. She sounded like she was remembering something when she said the words, an almost sardonic quirk to her lips. “The best way to make alliances is with marriage, so I suppose it's possible. It depends on how I'm received once I take the throne.” He didn’t even realize that his face had fallen until he felt a warm hand cupping his cheek, troubled eyes staring back at him. “Don’t make that face at me.”

He embraced the circumstances that they found themselves in and jutted his lower lip out. 

“Do you expect me to wilt away, old and alone, pining after a boy I’ve known for a moon’s turn?” Daenerys asked humorously, her chin perched on his clavicle as she gazed up at him. For a conversation about her future marital prospects, she didn’t seem too worried about their position. If someone caught them in bed together, it would be the talk of all of Westeros and could ruin alliances just as quickly as it would take to build them. The King in the North and the Dragon Queen.

_It has a nice ring to it_, Robb thought traitorously, wishing that there was a simple way for them to be together save for sneaking around in one another’s chambers. What he wouldn’t give to hold her publicly as a husband would hold his wife, to give her a lifetime of happiness and love and babes, and choose her -choose love- over all of the duties he had given his life for.

“That’s right,” he grinned at her broadly, laughing when she snickered against his collarbone, winding his arms around his lover to pull her even closer to her. In her presence, nothing seemed too bleak. The war had taken nearly five years from him; it could wait a few hours, couldn’t it?

“Tell me about her,” Daenerys shifted on top of him, her leg hitched over his hips. “Your wife.”

His stomach flipped on itself at the question, his mood dropping somewhat. The last thing he wanted to speak about with Daenerys was Roslin, out of awkwardness more than anything, but also out of respect for both women. They didn't deserve to be pitted against one another. What was proper decorum when it came to speaking to his lover about his wife? It wasn’t the same thing, he supposed, when he barely even knew his wife, let alone loved her. “What?”

“I want to know.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she continued as if to let him know that it was alright to speak about her. “I was married once too. It feels like a lifetime ago now.”

“To the horse lord,” Robb finished, recalling the tales he heard of the lost princess and her brother, the Beggar King, across the Narrow Sea. He hadn’t thought much of it back then. At the time that his father wrote to him about the situation with Robert Baratheon being cross with him over her fate, all he knew of it was that a khalasar had never crossed the Narrow Sea before, not in their entire history. Never until her.

“Drogo,” she whispered as he carded his hand through her loose curls, leaning into his touch like an affectionate cat would. “There was a time when I thought that he was the only man I would ever love. I wonder now if it was all a delusion of my own creation, a way to make the best of my circumstances when my brother sold me to him. We couldn’t even speak the same language for the longest time and he was twice my age. At the time, I had no other choice.”

Robb smoothed her tangled hair back as she spoke, immensely sad for her though he wasn't sure if expressing his condolences was appropriate when they were laying together. She had merely been a girl when she had been sold to her husband, like livestock. But was it any more savage than what was done in Westeros? Roslin had no say in her marriage to him, and she was a highborn woman in civilized society. How would an alliance or a bridge ever compare to falling in love?

“Did I love him because he was the man I chose or because I had no other choice? Did he love me for who I am or who I tried to become in order to please him?” Daenerys questioned as if praying for all of the answers to suddenly come to her, seemingly at peace with his death despite the weight of her words. “Once, I called him my sun and stars. Now, I can hardly remember what he looked like.”

He held her through her words, somehow feeling like he was imposing on a memory that didn’t belong to him. When she sighed and buried herself back into his embrace, he exhaled slowly. Robb let a silvery strand of hair slip through his fingertips. “Roslin will make a good queen.”

She was beautiful and kind and doting, and gods, did he try to love her. Daenerys didn’t bristle at his choice of word, and merely met his eyes with a blend of sympathy and introspection. She pressed absentminded kisses to his chest and he felt such affection for her that he might burst.

“And yet…” the words didn’t need to be said for him to understand.

_And yet you’re here with me._

As much as the guilt gnawed at him, he wanted to be here with Daenerys. He would choose this over anything, be it emerging from a battle victorious, or enjoying his favorite meal, or running along the coast of a shimmering sea somewhere with no worries in the world.

“It’s all just duty,” the words felt heavy in his mouth as his thumb traced along her hip, rubbing at her skin softly. “None of it’s real with her. She would have done her duty to whoever her father gave her to, whether I was the King in the North or some hedge night from the Reach. She tried for me and I tried for her but… love was never meant for us, for me and Roslin. Gods, she wouldn’t even call me by my name ‘til three moons into the marriage. It was always ‘Your Grace’ or ‘my king’ when all I wanted was to hear was...”

“Robb,” Daenerys finished for him as if they truly were one in the same. She wore an expression that he hadn’t seen her use around anyone before. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” Robb returned her smile, unable to help but melt under her stare. Not many people understood what he had to endure as a king; sometimes he still felt like a little boy playing with swords and crowns. She was of an age with him, not quite twenty-and-three and yet was responsible for the rise and fall of kingdoms. Every life lost weighed on his conscience like an anvil; only Daenerys understood his heart. “Tell me.”

“Who would ever dare to love a dragon?” Daenerys murmured back to him and he burned once more under her gaze. He would fall to his feet before her if he was any other man. He would scream is love for her from mountaintops if his kingship allowed him to love her openly, even if it ripped his heart out in the process.

Inexplicably, he thought of the Prince of Dragonflies and his commoner wife, a woman he loved so dearly that he cast everything aside for her; his claim, his titles, his future… Duncan and Jenny had loved each other so truly that love songs were written about them for decades to come. He gave everything up for love.

Were it that Robb could do the same.

In another life, he imagined that he would gladly lay his crown and sword at her feet, proclamations of love and devotion on his lips for all to see. He would crown her a Queen of Love and Beauty like tourney nights did, laying a wreath of purple roses on her head. She would allow him to sweep her off her feet and they would marry under the stars before a weirwood tree for the gods to smile down upon.

He couldn’t bite his tongue at the look in her eyes. “I dare.”

She didn’t look surprised at the admission. All he could comprehend was the small smirk on her face and then she was mounting him again, looking every inch like a goddess rising from the sea. The covers spilled around her as she tipped her head back, every movement captivating him.

“Robb,” she breathed into the open air and he crumbled. He never had a chance.

* * *

Robb had never been particularly religious in his youth. He kept to the Old Gods and the New, as it pleased his parents for him to do so. He hadn’t really questioned any of it as a child, though the concept of that sort of devotion had always been lost on him. Septas and Septons, the Silent Sisters, the Night’s Watch… all those lifelong commitments had long eluded him. It was difficult to imagine someone being so committed to religion that they would devote their lives to it. What could the gods possibly offer someone that they would give their life for?

In Daenerys, he found his salvation.

His head was buried between her thighs, savoring each breathless sigh that escaped her lips and every moan that he managed to coax from her as her fingers twined through his hair. _I love you_, his tongue swirled the words into her quim as he feasted on her over and over again, _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

He couldn’t fathom worshiping any deity other than the woman writhing beneath him, each of her gasps a symphony to his ears.

All he knew of love was the curve of her smile, the specks of blue blended with purple in her eyes, the slope of her nose, the feel of her skin against his when they came together as one… she was all he knew and all he loved, from now until the end of time no matter what anyone said of their union. How could he love anyone else when his world seemed to tilt on its axis every time she did so much as breathe out his name?

If loving her doomed him to an eternity in the seven hells, he would gladly burn.

She peaked with a cry, for possibly the hundredth time since they had first slept together, legs tightening around his neck and riding her orgasm out like a woman possessed. He lapped at her eagerly, drinking her in for all that she could give until her hands were pushing at his scalp. She cherished him with equal fervor, chasing his lips as soon as she clambered over to where he was sitting, hands roving over his chest as if all she deigned to do for the remainder of the day was to memorize each curve and dip in his body. 

"I think I might love you," Daenerys breathed against his mouth, hair fanning around her with the wind that rushed in through the opened windows. Her laughter was melodic as she hooked her arms around his neck and straddled his lap. Robb's hands rubbed comfortingly up and down her bare back as they basked in each other's mutual affection. "Tell me, Robb, am I a fool for feeling this way?" 

"Undoubtedly," he affirmed, pressing two stray kisses against the swell of her bare breast. "I've been a fool for you since the moment we met."

She spared only a giggle for him before swallowing his words up once more, the pair of them falling against the soft mattress like summer children.

Rather than lay his crown at her feet, all he had to offer her was the mangled heart within his chest. He had little use for it when all it seemed to do was thrum for her, relentless in its devotion, heavy in his chest. Once the sun rose, they would again be resigned to their roles as a king and queen whose interests would never align. For the time being though, he wouldn't have to put a kingly masquerade on for anyone. All that mattered were two fools in love with kingdoms at their fingertips and crowns upon their heads.

* * *

At the feast, he could barely keep his eyes off her.

The Martells had insisted on some sort of celebration to boost morale and so they all chewed at their burnt seagull and pretended that it was a delicacy.

There was a woman singing some Dornish folk song or another, but he had eyes for no one but his love. She was laughing with her handmaidens, clearly deep in her cups now that the festivities were well underway. Her silver curls bounced as she contributed to the conversation, a warm grin spreading across her face.

Dacey jabbed him in the thigh with her fork, to which Robb shot her a glare and rubbed at his minor wound huffily. Olyvar was giving him an uneasy look from Dacey’s other side, apparently having made his own assumptions about the cow eyes that Robb was giving the Dragon Queen.

_Is he wrong, though?_

Guilt wracked at him at the realization that his favorite squire was watching his sister’s husband gawk at another woman with all the subtlety of a brick.

Robb determinedly stared down at his meal when neither of his companions spoke a word. Did they think him to merely be infatuated with Daenerys or did they know that they were lovers? No matter what assumptions they made, the damage was done. It had been done several times over, no matter how much guilt he felt over the matter now. He loved Dany as he had loved no other woman, her name seeming to sing through his veins even when they were apart.

He couldn’t help but shoot a last glance at Daenerys, who was already watching him with affection blooming in her gaze like a rose grown from a block of ice.

* * *

Daenerys was laying on her stomach as Robb penned her a poem, her chin resting in the palm of her hand while she kicked her legs up in the air. Clad in only her smallclothes, she made for a tantalizing sight, though that wouldn’t distract him from the mess he was making of each line. He was a horrid poet though he supposed that made the situation all the more hilarious. What good was serious poetry anyhow, when it had no personality nor true feelings behind it?

He was halfway through a brilliant line likening her arse to a peach when she interrupted him, hair cascading over one shoulder from her spot on her bed.

“You’ll never bend the knee to me.”

Robb paused, looking up from his verse to gauge whether she was cross with him or not. “Yes.”

He loved her but he could not. He would not turn his back on the North, not after all they had sacrificed to avenge his father and save his sisters. Bending for her was never an option. She lowered her gaze, her breathing shallow when she spoke. “I won’t force you.”

Then she lifted them up and all he could find in them was vulnerability and fright, as if she was scared that he would throw her trust back into her face. As if he could ever hurt her, intentional or not. She could make him bend to her with a simple threat that he was sure had been at the tip of her tongue for weeks.

But she wouldn’t.

“I know,” he breathed out, unable to quite put into words how much he loved her.

His love for Talisa was the love that a boy felt for the first girl who paid him notice, all hopes and dreams with nothing grounding them. His love for Roslin was that of a companion, a friend, but never a lover. His love for Daenerys was consuming and ardent, seemingly fused into his very being.

Wetness threatened to spill from his eyes as he tucked a strand of her whitened hair behind her ear, fingers gentle against her warm skin. In less than a month she had managed to capture his heart, but he had already long overstayed his welcome here; he was needed elsewhere, even if every inch of his being shouted at him to stay with her and warm her bed no matter the consequences of such a decision.

If he was free to follow his heart, he would never leave her side.

But he was not.

He belonged to the North above all else, no matter how he loved the woman splayed out on his bed. Duty was all he had known for the years that he had been king. It was a second nature to him now, and not one that he could let go simply because of his heart’s desires. “I have to go, Daenerys.”

She said nothing for a few moments, as if saying her goodbyes would make them true. “I won’t ask the North to bend for me.”

His breathing stilled, scared that he was imagining this and would wake up at any moment.

Daenerys continued, her eyes distant with concentration. It seemed as if she had been wanting to say these words for quite some time but knew that once they were out in the open, there was no way of turning back. “I want to meet the other king for myself on neutral soil if he hopes to aid us in the wars to come. I need his fleet, and I need the numbers. The risk of losing my men to the Lannisters outweighs that of the crimes being committed westward. I would join you, Robb, so long as you promise to stand beside me when we take the capital from the pretender.” 

“Truly?” He breathed out, the very picture of disbelief. “What convinced you?”

She cocked her head, seeming to think her answer through. “I know what kind of queen I want to be, Robb. I won’t allow more people to die on account of my pride or yours.” Daenerys peeked up at him. “I’ll need your consent to the alliance in writing.”

He was certain Tyrion would expect nothing less. “I would gladly sign whatever you need to trust that we won’t betray you.” He thought of Theon and the Riverlands, wondering where else the country would fall in rule. “Daenerys, I need to tell you-”

Her answering smile was radiant when she cut him off. “I will fight for you, Robb Stark, so long as you fight for me.”

* * *

Robb had busied himself for the better part of an afternoon in writing letters to his family, warning them of what was to come with specific orders on how to proceed next. Glancing at the finished letters on his rickety desk, he counted them to himself: Mother, Sansa, Theon, Jon, the Blackfish.

All they needed was his seal before they were ready to be sent out.

Arya would be escorted out of Riverrun as soon as possible so that she was safely out of the crossfire by the time the Boltons got close enough to pose an actual threat to Riverrun's safety. He would rest easier knowing that his little sister was safely hidden away at Winterfell rather than trapped at a potential battlefield. Sansa being out and about was stressful though it eased Robb’s worries somewhat to know that she had made some progress with getting Aunt Lysa’s forces on their side. Though nothing was official yet, he couldn’t help his optimism about the matter.

The war would be all but won if they managed to unite the entire realm against the Lannisters.

Robb hesitated over his last letter, the one that he had begun writing to Roslin. Should he ask after their child? Could it have been born already? Was it even his right to ask after a child that had been a dot in its mother’s stomach the last time that he saw it?

He set his quill down after struggling for a moment.

Robb couldn’t in good conscience pretend with her. She deserved better than his lies.

He would speak to her once this was all done and explain everything, no matter how difficult it would be to admit his betrayal to her face. He would offer his apologies as well as anything she might want from him. Their child would still stand to inherit the North, so perhaps he ought to ask after it?

Gods, how would he even begin speaking to his estranged wife, though?

Robb shoved the unfinished letter beneath a pile of them before adding a footnote to the one addressed to his mother—_Please let me know how my heir fares. Give Roslin my best wishes_.

* * *

Tyrion’s company was unwelcome, but Robb couldn’t find it in him to shoo the man away.

With the fragile peace their forces had come to, it would have been inappropriate to insult the man to his face.

They merely stood in the center of Dragonstone’s throne room, resolutely not talking to each other until Tyrion cleared his throat and ruined the brief silence Robb had been taking solace in. “Your sister,” he started. “Sansa. I’ve heard that she’s recently become a queen.”

“Aye,” He tried not to let his irritation show, his jaw ticking as he responded. “She has.”

“Theon Greyjoy isn't the partner I would have chosen for her, but I suppose she could have done worse.” Tyrion commented as if his opinion mattered at all.

Robb simply hummed, silently praying that he would soon find someone else to bother.

Mother was certain that Tyrion had orchestrated the attack on Bran after his fall and though his judgment served no purpose but to muddy Westerosi affairs further, he couldn’t afford to trust him even a smidgen of a bit. He respected the man as the Hand of the Queen that Daenerys chose, but he would not spend any more time than he had to with him. Trusting a Lannister would be folly after all their family had done to his.

“She would have made Joffrey a good queen,” Tyrion granted, prolonging the conversation for no reason but to torture them both. “She was stronger than she seemed. Soft-spoken from what I remember, but I always suspected that she had a clever head on her shoulders.”

“I didn’t ask,” Robb responded gruffly, coughing once an awkward silence took over.

Perhaps he should have just humored him.

He recalled greeting him at Winterfell years ago, when he was merely a boy playing at being a lord, before his father’s head was taken from his shoulders. _I’m not your boy, Lannister_, he had said to him once. Robb wagered that their relationship hadn’t changed much since then, no matter how they pretended otherwise.

“Perhaps it isn’t my place,” Tyrion started, though he was going to voice his thoughts regardless of what Robb said. He was staring at him queerly, though Robb fought to keep his mask of indifference up, not wanting to give the other man the satisfaction of reacting. “But I must warn you from experience, Your Grace. Love can tear kingdoms apart if one isn’t careful.”

”So you’re a poet then, are you?” Robb mocked the man, not knowing how else to respond to such an underhanded confrontation. What was he playing at? "I could have sworn I've heard a bard sing that line at every tavern I've ever been to."

“Of course,” Tyrion chucked under the guise of humoring Robb’s insult, instead just responding as if they were sparring and not speaking. “The whores sing songs from Winterfell to Dorne about my prowess with a quill and some parchment. A half man with poetry twice as sweet as his tongue, lust on his lips and a cock worth a thousand sonnets.” 

“I’m sure they do,” Robb responded flatly, no clever rebuttal coming to him then. What was he even supposed to say to something like that?

”As our queen well knows,” Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Robb meaningfully. “Alliances are fragile. It would be such a shame if ours were ruined by... misunderstandings of any sort. Or quarrels. Historically speaking, lovers have never been known to make good allies.”

Two seconds away from telling him to shove it, Robb was interrupted mid-thought by the spymaster ambling into the room. “I hoped I might find you here, Lord Tyrion,” Lord Varys announced his presence, wearing the same style of robes that he always did.

Seeing his opportunity to leave, Robb didn’t hesitate to take it, bowing once for Tyrion and Varys both before practically sprinting from the room.

* * *

Preparations to make for Harrenhal didn’t take long. His men were anxious to leave the island now that they had dawdled here for nearly a moon’s turn, Dacey and Rodrik most of all. Robb thought about Joffrey. He had to leave to put the little prick’s head on a spike if for nothing else, and to feel Ice in his hands once more. The greatsword belonged in the North, just as every Stark did. It wouldn’t be long before the Lannisters would be forced to face them for true, especially with a siege in question.

It had taken long enough.

Grey Wind rushed ahead of Robb toward the dinghy, excited to leave the island for the Riverlands once more. The direwolf hadn’t taken to the climate there as well as he had with the North, but far preferred it to the dreary offerings of Dragonstone. At least there were forests in the Riverlands, and far more prey to hunt than the animals native to an island. Gods did Robb miss the taste of bacon and freshly-killed boar.

Dragonstone would still remain under guard, but the bulk of Daenerys’ armies would follow her to Harrenhal in anticipation of the battles ahead of them, the Martells following closely behind under the guise of being Tully bannermen so as to not draw attention to themselves.

The sea was surrounded with newly docked ships, most of them bearing the Targaryen sigil while a few had a speared sun emblazoned on the front.

It wouldn’t be nearly enough to lay siege to the city, so Robb could only hope that Theon would use that to his advantage during negotiations. Control of the Iron Fleet had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Robb,” Rodrik was staring pointedly behind him, a hint of judgment in his eyes though he didn’t dare voice his feelings aloud.

He moved on before Robb could react, heading toward their boat where the rest of Robb’s entourage were waiting for him. Olyvar's eyes seemed to prickle at his skin dangerously as he turned, as if daring him to just ignore the call and prove that the brewing rumors of an affair between Robb and Daenerys were nothing but sensationalist gossip. It pained him to realize the faith that his squire had put in his integrity, as if he didn't doubt his honor for a second.

Daenerys was approaching him, clad in some chainmail that he had never seen before. _She looks like a warrior_, Robb smiled to himself, looking like a proper idiot on the middle of the beach as he shuffled around in the sand when she approached. Within a few weeks time, they would either be dead or victorious, the possibility of anything else seeming to die with their freshly-forged alliance. As unlikely as it had been, it was ratified and signed by both parties on parchment.

“Travel safe, Your Grace,” he murmured to her as they stared one another down.

He noticed her fingers thrum at her side, wanting to reach out to hold him as much as he longed to do the same. They were being watched, as it seemed half the occupants of the beach were waiting for one of them to start the march to Harrenhal. Instead of retreating, she took both of his hands in her own, the action a tad too familiar for mere allies but not so much that it was overtly inappropriate. “You as well, Robb.”

There was something hot brewing beneath the surface of her stare, something that made him long to kiss her until neither of them could breathe anymore. If they hadn't had an audience, he would do it without hesitation; she was his and he was hers in all but name now.

But she was a queen, and he was a king, and soft courtly kisses weren’t meant for them.

Robb squeezed her hands once before dropping them, retreating towards his boat with a meaningful look and the silent promise to think of her in the days to come. If he died, it would be with her name on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me at targaryenstyrell on tumblr! Comments and kudos are super appreciated!


End file.
